


Come On Baby, Light My Fire

by katnissdoesnotfollowback (lost_on_cloud_9)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Firefighters, I Blame Tumblr, Sexual Content, Shameless Ogling, Slow Burn, and i love you for it, and their charity calendars, ish, self-indulgent twaddle, you all encouraged this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2018-11-21 13:36:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 74,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11358579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_on_cloud_9/pseuds/katnissdoesnotfollowback
Summary: A student with a naughty calendar, a neighbor who might just be pictured in it, school plays, best friends who kiss you out of the blue, a dash of baseball, a pinch of drama, and a healthy dose of smut. Just another semester in the life of high school biology teacher, Katniss Everdeen. Except the smut part. That's new...





	1. Grapholagnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grapholagnia - the urge to stare at obscene pictures

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**Grapholagnia** \- The urge to stare at obscene pictures.

 

* * *

 

 

The giggling draws me in. The girlish, bubbling noise out of place with the scent of chemical cleaners and formaldehyde that still lingers in the air. They scramble as they sense my approach, aware of their impending doom in the last second as I hold my hand out expectantly and confiscate the folder concealing whatever has distracted them from Rue’s hands. She averts her eyes, her cheeks darkening with an embarrassed flush as she hands it over to me.

 

“Please continue your work,” I calmly state in my best teacher voice.

 

“Yes, Miss Everdeen,” Rue and Sasha whisper in unison, bending their heads over their desks, pencils scratching away, completing their lab reports. With a satisfied nod, I return to the board, detailing their homework assignment as my class continues their quiet work.

 

This class, at the end of the day, is usually the most difficult to engage and keep focused. The bright promise of the final bell and the freedom of the afternoon, or as is the case today, the weekend, is often too tempting for my students to ignore.

 

Five minutes before their (and my) liberation, I call for their attention, pointing out their assignment for the weekend, ignoring the pained groans, and reminding them to place their lab reports in the box on my desk before they go.

 

“Have a great weekend, and I’ll see you on Monday,” I call out, most of my words muffled under the shrill bell, the scrape of chairs, and the excited talk of teenagers. I smile, ducking my head to hide the expression, because alright, their joy is infectious.

 

They spill from the room, and I notice that Rue is hanging back, taking her time to double check the assignment she’s copied down and carefully placing her books in her bag. When just she and I are left in the classroom, she approaches my desk.

 

“Miss Everdeen, could I, um, get that back now?” Her feet shift nervously and she fiddles with the straps of her bookbag.

 

Picking up the folder, I level her with my best _This better not happen again look._ Then I open it, to see what exactly caused the problem. Rue squeaks, and I have to control my reaction. It isn’t easy. I am greeted by a glossy photograph of a man in firefighter gear. Sort of. I’m pretty sure my face is flaming hotter than some of the fires this man extinguishes for a living, although hopefully not dressed like _that._

 

His pants are worn and hang low on his hips, the v of his lower abdominal muscles evident. His jacket hangs open, revealing a bare chest glistening in oil or sweat. His hands are draped casually over the ax slung across both shoulders, and his face is obscured behind the face shield of his helmet.

 

“This is serious, Rue,” I manage to say.

 

“I’m eighteen,” she insists.

 

“Yes, but this is not appropriate to bring to school,” I remind her as I flip to the front cover. _2017 Panem Firefighters Annual Charity Calendar._ I clear my throat and shut the folder. “However, since you’ve never given me trouble before, I’ll let you off with a warning.”

 

“Yes! Thank you!” she exclaims, bouncing on her toes with giddiness.

 

“Take this home, don’t open it until you’re off school property, and I never want to see something like this in my classroom again. Understood?”

 

“Yes! Understood!” She says, accepting the folder with the calendar still tucked inside and shoving it into her book bag before racing out the door with a happy farewell on her tongue. “See you Monday, Miss. Everdeen!”

 

I sigh and grab the stack of lab reports, placing them neatly in a file folder. Making sure my room is ordered and ready for class on Monday before I shut everything down. With the papers I’ll need to grade over the weekend tucked in my bag, I leave the school.

 

“Big plans for the weekend?” Annie Cresta asks as we join up in the hallway, both headed for the staff parking lot.

 

“New book,” I say simply, and Annie nods, leaving it at that. We walk in stilted silence. Both of us have worked here for a few years, but neither of us is very social or friendly. I really don’t know much about her other than that she teaches chemistry and I teach biology. Our classrooms neighbor one another. And that’s about all I know about her. It makes for some awkward moments.

 

I’m grateful when I finally reach my car and can enjoy a few minutes of peace and quiet. It’s payday, and I’m treating myself to a new book, some Chinese takeout, and maybe a bubble bath later tonight. The drive from the school to my favorite bookstore is short, and within twenty minutes, I’m standing in line with a brand new mystery novel. They’re kind of my guilty pleasure.

 

When it’s my turn, I am greeted by the gum-popping cashier, her hair in pigtails, and also a prominent display of calendars. The same one I confiscated from Rue earlier today. The cover model is pictured in psuedo-profile, more of his back than his side facing the camera. He’s shirtless, displaying miles of smooth, dark brown skin, with his arms crossed and his muscles bulging, pants low on the hips. Again. The Panem Fire Department needs to invest in belts or something. His shoulder is adorned with a tattoo of the PFD crest. And I can’t seem to look away.

 

“Oh it’s a good one this year,” the cashier says as she scans my book and taps her nails on the calendar.

 

“I wouldn’t know,” I stutter.

 

“Oh my gosh! I look forward to August every year just for this. Their calendars are always so freaking hot, plus the money goes to a good cause,” she chats as she tosses my book into a plastic sack bearing the store’s logo. Then she picks up one of the calendars and my cheeks rage in a conflagration as she flips it open to show me something. “July is my favorite. Last year he was December and the cover. Usually, they rotate the guys through, but this one is always in the calendar. Guess he’s in high demand. There’s just something about a ginger that lights my fire, know what I mean?”

 

“Um thanks for the information,” I say, shielding my eyes with one hand because July is wearing nothing but his boots, a smile, and a chartreuse fire extinguisher held strategically over his groin.

 

“For 2016, the money went to the Tenth District Animal Shelter, so they posed with puppies and kittens. Oh my gawd, I thought my ovaries were going to implode. This year, though, the money’s going to the Soup Kitchen down on Twelfth and Oak. You know the place?”

 

“I do. How much for my book?” I say, my eyes dipping once more to Mr. July. There’s no denying that he’s stunning. He oozes sensuality, but I really just want to get out of here.

 

“They only run $15 a piece,” the girl talks, and flips the page. “Not only that, but they’ve got a woman in here this year. See?”

 

Oh my god, I look. Briefly. Just enough to see that they’ve used the suspenders to cover her nipples, although the round globes of her breasts are visible, and her brown hair is spiked and streaked with red.

 

“You know, if that’s your thing. Equality, right? Hey! When’s your birthday? Let’s see what tasty treat you get for your special day!”

 

I don’t know what comes over me. I grab one of the calendars and shove it into my bag. Just to get her to shut up. She keeps nattering on as I finally pay for the book and the calendar, consoling myself that really, I’m just donating to a worthy cause. I don’t have to _look_ at it. But I can file a complaint about the pushy, over-sharing cashier. Later, though. Because I basically run out of the store, my relaxing weekend looking to turn into a complete joke.

 

When I get home, I shove the calendar, still in the opaque plastic bag, deep into the recesses of my closet. Dial up my favorite Chinese place and order way too much food before changing out of my work clothes into something far more comfortable. I even manage to read a chapter plus a few pages of my book before the buzzer rings, indicating that my food has arrived. Wallet in hand, flip flops on my feet, I zip to the elevator, mouth anticipating my order of crab rangoons.

 

“Hold the elevator, please!”

 

I roll my eyes and sigh. This person is getting between me and my food, but I press the Door Open button just as my neighbor from across the hall slips through the doors.

 

“Thanks,” he says with a bright smile, adjusting the black backpack slung over one shoulder.

 

“Don’t mention it,” I say. Yet another person I know nothing about, and yet, I can’t stop staring at the bright red embroidery on the sleeve of his navy blue polo shirt. He must take my attention as an invite to talk. Which it’s not.

 

“So, relaxing Friday night in?”

 

“Yeah,” I say, ripping my gaze up from the PFD emblem on his shoulder. How did I not know that 4C is a firefighter? He’s pretty quiet. No loud parties or random hookups at all hours of the night. No loud music or strange thumping. He keeps odd hours, though, a fact that now makes sense. I’ve seen him here and there, checking his mail, coming in from a run with his shirt plastered to his chest with sweat. Once, jogging from the building dressed much like he is now -- navy polo shirt, navy cargo pants, and black boots -- his blond curls damp from what I assumed was a shower. And another time, juggling three grocery sacks while helping our other floor neighbor get her skittish dog back into her apartment.

 

Mags, a sweet older lady, lives in 4B, and her massive chocolate lab, Rowdy, is almost always breaking free of her grip, trailing his leash behind him as he explores. Thankfully, she keeps him tagged and well trained. Usually he returns home on his own.

 

I think of all this as I force my eyes to the chrome elevator doors as we descend. My neighbor clears his throat once, clearly getting the message to leave me alone, and scratches the back of his neck, drawing my gaze there and then down, for some unknown reason.

 

Looser pants. The Panem Fire Department needs to buy looser pants and belts for their employees. They should use their charity money to purchase better fitting uniforms. I snort at the thought, and catch my neighbor watching me, a slow smile curving his lips. He has blue eyes.

 

And now I’m having lewd thoughts about my neighbor. Is he in that calendar? And what the hell is taking this elevator so long? It’s only three damn floors.

 

“And you?” I ask to break the strange tension.

 

“Headed into work. I drew the crummy shift this week,” he says, and I nod, hoping that this conversation is now over. No such luck. “I work for PFD.”

 

“I can see that,” I say with a scowl and a nod towards his sleeve as the elevator finally stops.

 

“Right,” he says as I hurry off and he follows. “I, uh, guess I’ll see you around?”

 

I don’t bother answering because I am busy transacting for food. Delicious food that doesn’t have blue eyes or bulging biceps or a tight ass. Why did I check out my neighbor’s ass?

 

Food in hand, I hurry back upstairs and lock myself in my apartment. Halfway through my meal, though, I’ve reread the same page five times, unable to swat or eat or read away my curiosity. I’ll take one look. Just one quick peek to satisfy myself that my neighbor’s goods aren’t circulated to the greater Panem Metro Area because…

 

Fuck, I have no reason.

 

Retrieving the calendar from its hiding place in my closet anyways, I sit cross-legged on my couch. I finger the cover for a second before flipping it open to January.

 

Well, that’s a lot of skin, I think and flip to February. Four months of sweaty, gorgeous firemen. My hands shake as I stare at the squares of April, remembering what the cashier said about my birth month. It’s silly so, I stuff a crab rangoon in my mouth, reminding myself that I am perfectly within my rights to view this. These firemen were consenting. I flip to May.

 

And nearly choke.

 

This one isn’t smoldering at the camera or grinning with swagger. He’s laughing. His blond curls are mussed up, and his arm muscles practically ripple off the page. The navy polo shirt stretched across them tonight only a tease of what lay beneath. A coiled firehose is draped over one shoulder, revealing just how broad that expanse is. But what holds my attention is that his pants have malfunctioned.

 

They’re not hanging low on his hips like the others, they’re dangling on the precipice of indecency. Not even fastened, gaping open to reveal a trail of blond hair leading into a thatch of more blond hair. That and his laughter, his casual stance, paints an irresistible picture. I can practically see it, him juggling the heavy hose with one hand and his disobedient pants with the other, attempting to maintain some form of modesty, and laughing as he nearly fails. The lucky photographer catching the carefree instant with a quick snap of the shutter.

 

Holy fuck. My neighbor is five alarm hot.

 

Something flutters low in my stomach and a burning takes residence in my core. While I’d like to dismiss it as nothing or even as something unpleasant, like a yeast infection, I know that’s not what it is. I should look away. It isn’t right to stare lasciviously at my neighbor, whom I definitely know nothing about except what his happy trail looks like, and I wonder if the hair is coarse or if he’d twitch when I ran a finger through it, and I stop myself right there, flinging the calendar aside and refusing to look any further.

 

I march into my bathroom and start the water to draw my bath, eyes squeezed shut, but the image of him is tattooed on the back on my eyelids, and I groan in frustration as I realize, I won’t be unseeing it. How am I supposed to act normal around him now?

 

I’m so fucked.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story began as a response to several prompts left in my inbox on tumblr. The prompts were all words, which are now the chapter titles. It's a little different than my usual stories because I planned it around the prompts I received rather than outlining something in advance. So it was reader interactive to a certain degree. I've written the complete story and it's posted in its entirety on tumblr, but I'll be spreading out the posting of chapters here, because life. Each chapter will provide the definition behind the word that prompted the chapter.
> 
> My thanks to akai-echo for the incredible banner, and to peetabreadgirl for beta reading a little over half of this story. Three quarters? Whatever, she's my test subject. ;-)
> 
> As always, your comments are welcome!


	2. Serendipity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serendipity - the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way, OR “We meet again, neighbor”

**Serendipity -** the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way, OR “We meet again, neighbor”

 

* * *

 

 

I have metamorphosed into a perverted incarnation of _The Very Hungry Caterpillar._

 

On Saturday, I spend the day much as I spend most of my Saturdays. A date with my leftovers from Friday night, papers to grade in the morning, and a movie over the phone with my little sister Prim. Up this week is her selection, _The Matrix: Reloaded_. I honestly don’t know why she’s so into that trilogy, but the tradition is an old one so I am not allowed to argue her choice.

 

“I never understood this part,” I mumble into the phone on Saturday as Neo dips his fingers into Trinity’s abdomen to retrieve a bullet. “Also, the dialogue sucks.”

 

“Shhhhh,” Prim hisses. “It’s romantic.”

 

“It’s lame,” I respond, and Prim snorts.

 

“Keep this up, and I am providing running commentary the next time you make us watch _Harry Potter_.”

 

“Which one?” I ask before shoveling another spoonful of my leftover fried rice into my mouth.

 

“ _Order of the Phoenix_ ,” she says without missing a beat and I gasp in indignation, spraying a few grains of rice.

 

“Blasphemy!” I declare, and Prim giggles.

 

All told, though, this is about as good as it gets on a Saturday for me. Prim and I watching a movie together and chatting on the phone, shrinking the distance between us. It’s been a tradition since I went off to school. After I graduated and swapped a dorm room for an apartment, the tradition didn’t ebb. All that’s really changed now is that Prim’s the one watching from a cramped twin bed in a tiny dorm room.

 

“Okay,” Prim says once they’re safely out of the Matrix. “It gets weird from here. You may talk now.”

 

“Oh now it gets weird?” I complain. “The bullet removal and heart squeezing isn’t weird? I mean honestly, he’s been fighting and smashing concrete and firing guns and how do you know when he last washed his hands, and I’m pretty sure he demolished at least one vital organ--”  


“Oh my god, Katniss! They’re not real inside the Matrix. They’re just coded versions of themselves. So he moved around the code!”

 

“I can’t believe you, a future medical professional, condones this blatant disregard for reality.”

 

“Says the lady who fantasizes about a fictional school full of magic wielding teenagers and the worst excuse for a headmaster ever.”

 

“I may have to disown you for that slander,” I say, but I’m smiling broadly, enjoying the banter. Then I switch to a hushed whisper because it’s my favorite part of the movie to trash. “Neo, become one with the machines. Feel it...Woah it worked.”

 

Prim giggles and maybe snorts a little. “Do you know kung fu?”

 

“I know kung fu,” I manage my best Keanu imitation and Prim cackles in laughter as the credits finally, mercifully begin to roll.

 

“Alright, big sis, I gotta get back to the books here.”

 

“Which is code speak for hit the bars,” I say, but don’t lecture my sister.

 

As much as I want to, it’s her college experience and I don’t want to rob her of the chance to make epically bad decisions and learn from them. Not that I would know about those. Besides, I need to get to bed myself since I have an early morning. Another weekend ritual. This one with my closest friend. Actually, Gale might be my only friend.

 

“No judgement, old lady,” Prim says.

 

“Well then let’s wrap this up, whippersnapper, so I can drink my prune juice and go to bed.”

 

“Don’t forget to clean your dentures,” Prim laughs at my bad joke and returns one back, drawing a rare laugh out of me in response. We say our good-byes, and I clean up the small mess in my apartment, the dirty dishes that have gathered during the day I spent mostly on my couch.

 

At this point, I’d like to read my book until my eyes are scratchy with exhaustion, maybe with some toaster strudel for dinner, but I’ve been sedentary most of the day. I force myself to unroll my yoga mat in my living room and progress probably too quickly through a half dozen sun-salutations. The relaxation of the exercise is lost on me, but at least I’ve used my muscles today.

 

Hyped up on my exercise, I jog down the stairs, my keys rattling in my palm, to check my mail. Alright, I admit it, I poke my head through the door of the lobby first to make sure it’s clear of any and all firefighters before dashing over to the bank of mailboxes and grabbing my mail. Then I sprint back up the stairs.

 

“No, he was no trouble at all,” a warm voice says as I hurdle over the last of the steps and scowl.

 

Apparently, I can’t even successfully avoid Mr. May for one day. Which is ludicrous since we’d barely interacted until I bought that stupid calendar. He must have been in the elevator while I was racing up and down the stairs. I consider diving back down the stairs, but Mags spots me and waves enthusiastically at me from her doorway. 4C turns and smiles, his hands holding tight to Rowdy’s leash. Guess he’s taking the handful of fur for walks now.

 

The dog is panting and the stud is sweaty. His shirt clings to him, and he must have been running because his leg muscles appear chiseled and perfect. Fuck, he’s hot.

 

He licks his lips and opens his mouth like he wants to say something to me, and I realize I’ve been staring at him like he’s some kind of damned dessert. I wave back and try to smile, but duck my head and run into my apartment to barricade myself inside before either one of them can speak to me.

 

On Sunday, the odds are once more against me. I rise well before the sun, looking forward to my day. I dress in my hunting gear, grab my bow and pack a cooler with lunch and drinks. In an attempt to get a few seconds of extra exercise, I take the stairs again instead of the elevator. As I emerge into the lobby, though, the front door swings open and I have to suppress a groan as 4C walks in, once more dressed in his navy blue firefighter uniform with the familiar black backpack over one shoulder, head bent over an electronic device and headphones tucked in his ears.

 

In a city of close to six million people, with over 200 firefighting stations -- okay, I looked it up online last night because Google is safer than that calendar -- my neighbor was one of twelve out of hundreds, literally hundreds, of firefighters selected to pose in indecent attire to make a few bucks off of the millions of lonely and salivating women out there.

 

Out of _HUNDREDS_!

 

And I don’t appreciate being turned into a stereotype.

 

My stomach tightens as he looks up and notices me, a smile instantly bathing his face in light. He tugs his earphones out and halts in front of the elevator. Far enough away from the front doors so that I could easily make it around him, but close enough that I can’t quite ignore him without coming off as rude.

 

This is ridiculous. I am twenty-six years old and avoiding my neighbor like a sixteen year old with a crush. It’s just a picture, that’s it, I remind myself and square my shoulders to face him.

 

“Hey neighbor,” he says cheerfully, although as I get closer, I notice that his eyes are ringed in purple splotches, the tips of his hair damp and melded together. Like he took a shower recently. Or spent a decent amount of time with it smashed to his head beneath a mask and helmet in a very hot situation.

 

Somehow, my mind jumps from him fighting fires to that damn picture of him in less than half his gear, and even that half was falling off of him. With his adorable smile, enticing abs with that tempting happy trail, and broad shoulders, and arms that were sculpted by the gods. Ugh those _arms_.

 

“Hey,” I say and peer out the glass door towards the street as we come to a halt facing one another. There’s no sign of Gale yet. Which means no escape route whatsoever. I cross my arms as 4C eyes my bow.

 

“Archery range or…”

 

He trails off as I whip my head back to stare at him.

 

“Hunting,” I say succinctly and wait for the usual response from anyone with testicles.

 

“Cool,” he says, and his unwavering smile suggests that he means it. I blink, thrown by his simple reaction. I wonder if maybe _he’s_ simple or something. Maybe too much smoke inhalation fried his brain cells. “How long have you been into hunting?”

 

“Since my Dad decided I was old enough to hold a bow,” I tell him and shift on my feet.

 

“Just you or…”

 

“I’m waiting for my friend,” I say as my eyebrows snap together in a scowl.

 

“That’s good,” he says and then smiles. “Safety first, right?”

 

I blink. He coughs behind his fist, his eyes darting away from me. It’s too early in the morning for small talk. Especially with Mr. May.

 

“So I know I haven’t been a very good neighbor. Should have introduced myself awhile back. Just been busy moving in and--.”

 

“It’s fine,” I say with a shrug. This man’s interactions mean less than nothing to me, I remind myself. I can handle it. It’s not like I’ve never seen a nearly naked man before, I’m just used to _knowing_ something about them first. Knowing more about my neighbor’s body than I do his personality unsettles me. Small talk isn’t helping.

 

“Still, it wasn’t my intent to be rude. I’m Peeta Mellark,” he says, hiking his bag more securely on his shoulder before holding his hand out to me. I eye his hand and slowly take it in mine, surprised when he gives mine a firm squeeze.

 

“Katniss,” I say as I lift my gaze from our joined hands to meet his eyes. His smile widens as he tries my name out, and if I thought I was fucked when I found his panty-soaking picture in that calendar, I am now doubly screwed. My name sounds beautiful rolling off his tongue, like something exotic or desirable rather than blue tinged tubers whose only claim to beauty is their nutritional value and the plain flowers that grow with them. My chest tightens inexplicably and as soon as his grip loosens, I yank my hand back, nervously rubbing my palm on my pants.

 

A loud rumble rolls up outside, and I look through the window again, catch a glimpse of Gale’s truck as he pulls up out front of my building.

 

“My friend,” I say as I dart around Peeta to get to the doors. He steps aside to let me pass and looks curiously out the windows at the massive 4x4 rumbling obnoxiously on the curb.

 

“Have a good day,” he calls as I bolt out the front door towards Gale’s truck. I toss my bag into the bed and climb up into the cab, carefully placing my bow on the back floorboards before turning to greet my oldest friend.

 

“Who’s the guy?” he asks, jutting his chin towards my building. I glance back through the door and catch a brief glimpse of Peeta as he steps onto the elevator, his earbuds securely back in place.

 

“My neighbor,” I say.

 

“He wasn’t bothering you, was he?” Gale asks darkly. I turn back to Gale, the words dying on my tongue as I take in his expression. He looks almost angry.

 

“No,” I say, confused by my friend’s reaction to my neighbor, whom he’s never seen before.

 

“Just looks like a prick,” Gale says and pulls away from the curb.

 

“Firefighter, actually,” I say and lean over to adjust the dials on the radio, hoping that since the sun hasn’t risen yet and the green lights on Gale’s dashboard provide the only illumination, that he won’t be able to see the blush I feel taking over my cheeks. For some reason, my neighbor and Gale don’t coexist well in my mind.

 

On Monday, I am granted a reprieve. At least from my neighbor. Not from my coworkers.

 

“Please, Katniss. I’m begging you,” Thom, one of the math teachers, beseeches me over my lunch, a hastily thrown together peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a few apple slices.

 

I overslept my alarm this morning, and I’m pretty sure it shows in my wardrobe and _Fuck off_ expression. My morning classes were unusually studious this morning, as though they sensed it was not a good day to mess with me. Thom, however, did not get the memo and has spent the past ten minutes trying to convince me to join the school’s team for the upcoming Panem Metro Baseball Series. The series is a joint annual fundraiser between several of the municipal groups. Thom’s been running the Panem Schools District 12 team for as long as I can remember.

 

“Why do you need me?” I ask, and Thom shifts nervously in his chair across the table from me.

 

“Because none of us want to play with Haymitch again,” he finally admits, and beside me, Annie snorts. “Look, I just need two more people. Annie, don’t laugh. I’m giving you the puppy dog eyes next.”

 

“Don’t bother. Your charms won’t work on me,” Annie says. “But go ahead and put me down as a pitcher.”

 

“A pitcher?” Thom asks with blatant surprise. I watch as Annie’s eyebrow arches and she gives him an imperious look. Fire flashes in her eyes, and it’s breathtaking. I’ve never seen her like this. She’s usually so quiet and unassuming.

 

“Yes, Thom,” she states succinctly. “Pit-cher. Ask my former coworkers from District 4 if you don’t believe me. Or...We’ll have practices before the series, won’t we? So you’ll see what I can do and if you aren’t satisfied, then you can rotate me out with someone else.”

 

Her tone of voice makes it clear, though. He won’t be disappointed. I cough to dispel the tension and Thom ducks his head, sheepishly writing her name down next to the only free pitcher billet on his list.

 

“Okay, pitcher it is. That leaves me short a second baseman. Katniss?”

 

With both of them staring at me like that, it’s hard to say ‘no.’ Besides, we could use some updated lab equipment. I heave a sigh and roll my eyes.

 

“Fine,” I huff. “When’s the first practice?”

 

“Yes!” Thom says and pumps his fist before adding my name. “First practice is this Thursday at four. It’s a lot of fun, ladies, and even though we usually finish third or fourth, we still get a pretty good amount of money. Last year we used it to replace the busted basketball hoops in the gym. We’ll have a staff meeting sometime before to decide what we’re gonna use the money for since the crowds always wanna know what they’re paying for.”

 

“They’re paying to drool over the cops and the firefighters,” Annie deadpans, and I nearly choke on my sandwich. That’s right. The firefighters will be there. So much for my reprieve. I can’t even escape him at work.

 

“Okay, well it’s still a great fundraiser for us,” Thom says, and tucks his clipboard under his arm as he stands.

 

“Yeah, speaking of which,” Annie says as she sets down her now empty salad cup. “We could use a few extra hands with the school play.”

 

She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms, looking innocently up at Thom. I’m impressed. Her lips quirk in a half smile, already knowing that she’s won.

 

“Like what?” Thom asks.

 

“Like sets and extra chaperones,” Annie tells him sweetly. “First rehearsal is next Tuesday, right after school.”

 

He glances down at his clipboard and nods. “Alright, I’ll be there.”

 

As he leaves and I try not to grin in shared triumph with Annie, she turns to me with an expectant smile on her face.

 

“Oh no,” I say, but her smile only widens. “Fine. What else do you need?”

 

“Someone to help Ms. Seeder with the chorus. It’s not much, just a small part, but we could really use your help, Katniss.”

 

“I’m never eating lunch in here again,” I tell her as I gather up my trash. Nights and weekends are sacred. And here I am, volunteering to give them up for various and sundry events.

 

“Thank you, Katniss!” Annie calls as I leave the teacher’s lounge and head back towards my classroom before the bell rings and the halls fill with students.

 

On Tuesday, I walk into my building worn and ready to crash on my couch and do nothing but moan to the ceiling. Between a flat tire that morning, a fight breaking out right outside my classroom door, Thom’s incessant reminders about appropriate attire for Thursday’s practice, and my mother calling me before I left the school to talk Thanksgiving plans, it’s not been the best day.

 

I sway on my feet as I check my mail, and scowl as someone stomps down the stairs, whistling. The pesky sound stops as he stands next to me, and I glare up at Mr. May. Even though I know his name now, it’s easier to think of him as Mr. May.

 

“Afternoon,” he says with a soft smile. “Did you have a good day hunting this weekend?”

 

“What?” I ask testily.

 

“Er, hunting. On Sunday? With your friend in the Ford off-roading beast?”

 

“Oh,” I say, and my lips tug up unwillingly at the description of Gale’s truck. “Yeah, it wasn’t bad.”

 

“Catch anything good?” he asks as he opens his mailbox.

 

“Not really,” I say, and in the pause after I answer, while he shuffles his mail, I take a good look at him. He’s dressed in a plain white t-shirt and athletic shorts. His feet in flip flops and his blonde hair mussed up in the sexiest version of _I’ve-just-rolled-out-of-bed_ hair I’ve ever seen. My fingers flex on the envelopes and junk mail in my hands as he runs a hand through it, disheveling it even more, and all I want to do is repeat the motion.

 

Clueless as to what specifically it is about this firefighter in particular that seems to have piqued my hormones, I step back away from him and clench my fingers on my mail so I don’t actually give in to the impulse. I don’t like feeling this way, so out of control and ready to snap at any moment.

 

“That’s too bad,” he says, and I just shrug because for the life of me, I can’t remember what we’re talking about because he’s looked back up from his mail. Sweet cheese and crackers. No one should have eyes like that. My tongue feels glued to the roof on my mouth and I’m on the verge of looking like an idiot when he mercifully changes the subject.

 

“So it’s my day off and I decided to do absolutely nothing,” he tells me as he sweeps a hand down his front.

 

“Oh,” I say, confused as to why he felt the need to tell me this. To excuse his appearance?

 

“I’m taking Rowdy out for another run later on, if you maybe wanted to join us,” he says.

 

“Oh,” I say again stupidly. “Um, I’ve actually had a pretty rough day at work, so I think I’ll have to pass.”

 

“Okay. I’m sorry to hear you had a rough day,” he says, although I think there’s a flash of disappointment in his eyes before he turns and moves towards the elevator. “So do you and your boyfriend go hunting often?”

 

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I say as Peeta pushes the call button for the elevator. “Gale’s just a friend.”

 

“Oh. Okay,” he says as we both board the elevator. The doors slide shut and we both stare at the wall as the carriage lurches into motion.

 

“We’ve known each other since we were teenagers,” I tell the lit numbers as they proceed upwards. I don’t know why I’m giving this information to Mr. May. “Our dads were good friends and would take us out to the woods with them. Taught us how to hunt. How to camp. How to survive.”

 

When the elevator pings and the doors slide open, neither one of us moves at first. I look over at him, and he’s got a soft smile on his face. His arm shoots out to stop the door from closing on us and he motions for me to exit first. Once off the elevator, I twist and wait for him to join me.

 

“That sounds like a pretty good childhood,” Peeta says as we walk the few steps towards our doors.

 

“It was,” I say wistfully and bite my lip.

 

“Well, it was nice talking to you, Katniss,” Peeta says as we halt, facing one another across the hall, our backs to our respective doors.

 

“Yeah,” I say, a little surprised that I feel somewhat better. Even though it wasn’t much of a conversation. “Well, there’s a couch calling my name.”

 

“Yeah,” he echoes me and waves towards his door. “I should eat something before tearing through the city with Rowdy. I’ll see you around?”

 

“Yeah,” I say again and hastily unlock my door before diving inside and cursing myself for the heat that seems to have taken residence in every last one of my pores. What is wrong with me? Oh right. Blazing hot firefighter neighbor who turns out to be kind, and laid back, just the way he’s depicted in that fucking calendar. Oh and he’s also easy to talk to. Fuck.

 

I fling my purse aside and change into something comfy and as far from sexy as possible, then set to work making my dinner, planning a night of either reading or binge watching TV. When I hear him in the hallway as I’m eating my dinner, I squeeze my eyes shut and refuse to budge. Refuse to watch through the peep hole as he and Rowdy leave the building. Instead, I stuff my face and ignore the soft whispering call of the calendar buried in my closet.

 

Wednesday is the worst.

 

I spend the day shifty and cranky after a night of fitful sleep. My thoughts kept wandering places I didn’t want them to go, so in my efforts to keep my brain firefighter free, I ended up sabotaging my sleep cycle.

 

I linger at the mailboxes after school, carefully looking at each piece of mail before shuffling it to the back of the stack, although my mind doesn’t register any of the words on the envelopes or the glossy cards of junk mail. When I’ve cycled through the mail twice, I shake myself free of whatever hypnosis seems to have captured me and head upstairs. As I fall asleep later that night, I refuse to acknowledge the disappointment at not seeing Peeta at all today.

 

Thursday is a vast improvement.

 

Classes go well, minus an incident with grasshopper legs. After school, I gather with the eleven other teachers on our team at the baseball fields. Thom leads us through warm-ups and a few drills before finally splitting us up into teams.

 

The physical exertion is cleansing. My mind and body focused on the game and the movements across the field. While I haven’t played much of the sport since high school, there are some things that never leave you. I throw myself into practice to distract myself from the text messages from my mother that I received earlier in the day, asking me if I’d made up my mind about Thanksgiving yet. It’s easier to channel my anger into a throw towards first base. Or into a swing of the bat that makes Thom lift his hat off his head and whistle low while I run for second.

 

I am in the zone, but not so far that I don’t notice Annie’s rocket of an arm as she pitches. Or the happy smile on Thom’s face as we wrap up practice and he invites all of us out to dinner. I surprise myself when I accept, and surprise myself further when I find myself laughing over the story an animated Ms. Cecilia, one of the English lit teachers, tells about last year’s series and the game they almost won against one of the Panem Police Departments teams. If it hadn’t been for Haymitch tripping over his own hat as he attempted to steal home.

 

My smile lingers as I make a stop at a sporting goods store to pick up a glove. Thom loaned one of the school’s to me today, but I’m not keen on the idea of using something that’s meant for our students. With autumn approaching, my electric bill should start dropping soon, so I can manage thirty bucks for a cheap glove.

 

With my purchase in hand, I return home, tired but content. After a shower, I place the glove in my closet, the plastic corner of a bookstore bag catching my eye. Well I’ve been doing so well dealing with Mr. May that I pull the bag out and slide the glossy calendar from it’s hiding place.

 

There’s nothing wrong with looking at something like this, I remind myself and casually flip through the months, deliberately skipping May. I can’t deny that they’re attractive. Every last one of them, including Mr. October whose dark curls are peppered with gray, his waistline perhaps not as trim as it once was. But he’s still undeniably handsome, lounging against the front of a firetruck, his bright orange suspenders holding his pants in place. Ah, so _that’s_ the problem the others are having with their pants. I flip to November, and find the picture that I randomly flipped to when I confiscated this calendar from Rue.

 

I blush as I think of how Rue might react or what she’d think of her teacher staring at this, but it doesn’t matter, and my eyes land on a cursed Thursday labeled _Thanksgiving_ and sigh because my good mood is starting to dissipate. December isn’t much help. The same fireman who posed for the cover, so nothing new to look at.

 

Sliding my finger in between several of the pages, I flip back to May. And smile stupidly as my middle flips over. Why the photographers chose to show all the others with serious looks and him with laughter dancing on his lips, I don’t know. And frankly, I don’t care. But the sight of his frozen laughter sends warmth rushing through me. What would it take to get him to look like this? What sort of joke or story did the photographer tell him?

 

In every one of our recent encounters, he’s been sweet and almost shy. Kind people like him have a way of working under my skin and rooting there. But someone with a sunshine laugh like Mr. May’s do something far worse to me. Closing the calendar, I set it aside and climb into bed, turning out the lamp and settling in my cool sheets. Ready for a full night of peaceful, pure sleep.

 

Once I’ve calmed my breathing, I close my eyes and watch the colors dance behind my lids. The fluttering ash grey and coal black interspersed with soft gold. Listen to the sounds of the city outside and the noises of my building, at first so foreign to me when I moved here. Sometimes, I miss living near the woods. The wide open country. And while these sounds are now familiar to me, they are still not my home.

 

Thursday shifts into Friday unbeknownst to me. And Friday is the worst day of all this week.

 

How does a dream begin? I’ve always wondered and have never been able to name the start of any of my dreams. My mind only becomes aware of them after they’ve begun. There’s a satyr with cotton candy pink hair lecturing me on punctuality and being precise on reporting my students’ progress. And although I know I’m late, I can’t say why. Or when I’m racing down a darkened hallway shouting for my father even though I know he’s already gone. Flying through the clouds with no explanation for how or when I learned to fly.

 

Or moaning and arching into the hot mouth sucking my breasts. Fingers clawing over a pair of broad, sturdy shoulders as I pant and thrust my hips, desperately riding the feelings caused by the thick cock plunged deep inside me. Already teetering on the edge of release.

 

“Katniss, Katniss,” he murmurs into the valley between my breasts before lifting his head, his features bathed in silver moonlight from the window. “I want you to fucking come on my cock.”

 

I nod frantically as he thrusts faster, his mouth and hands clairvoyant, meeting every need without me needing to voice it. Hips angled so the golden thatch of hair at the end of that alluring trail catches on my clit, making me gasp wordlessly into the night. Hanging by a thread as we dance on moonbeams. My hands flail, searching for purchase, indecisive on what I want to feel beneath my palms more. I settle for one in his hair, toying with the exquisite softness of gilded wheat. And one gripping his ass, sliding on perspiration and reveling in the clenching strength, straining beneath my palm.

 

“Fuck, yes, Katniss,” he groans, when my body flutters beneath him, beginning deep in my core, squeezing him then letting loose with a high pitched squeal that bounces off his lips right before he lowers his head and joins our mouths.

 

“Agh!” I wake to tangled sheets and the whir of the fan overhead. No Peeta beside me or over me, and yet my skin remembers the dream of his touch. My lips ache for his kiss and his cock. As I sit there, mindlessly moving my sheets around, ordering myself to cool off, calm down, I struggle to make sense between reality and fantasy. It was just a dream. This is stupid, getting all worked up over a calendar like this.

 

As I swing my legs out of bed, intending to get a cool glass of water, a familiar glossy corner poking out from between a magazine and my book catches my eye. It’s still sitting on my nightstand. I pinch the cursed calendar between my thumb and index finger, lifting it from the stack and holding it away from me. Wrinkling my nose at the offensive thing. This damn thing, and alright, specifically my neighbor’s portrait in it, are to blame for my loss of sleep. In my state of heightened arousal and annoyance, I blame it for every other mundane stressor that has plagued me this week.

 

I march into the kitchen and yank out the drawer with my trash can, dangling the calendar over its depths, because I do not need the trouble this thing represents. But I hesitate. _Just let the thing go, Katniss,_ I urge myself silently.

 

For some reason, though, I can’t drop it into the trash. Flashes of Peeta smiling, attempting to be friendly, running with our neighbor’s dog, licking his lips, and alright! Those fucking goddamn arms stretching the sleeves of his PFD polo shirt. I snatch my hand back and slam the drawer. I refuse to be so weak to let a simple calendar with (mostly) tasteful partial nudes be my undoing. I am stronger than that. And I will prove it.

 

Tossing the calendar haphazardly back into the closet, I flop onto my bed, laying across it diagonally and letting the fan cool my skin. I forgot my water while I was in the kitchen. I’m still aching for a release. Throbbing, dripping, and why the hell did I have to get stuck living next to Mr. May?

 

“Fuck it,” I mutter, and dress for a run. I hate running, but I push myself, ignoring the stupidity of running alone in this city at four in the morning. When I return home twenty-five minutes later, sweating and gasping for breath, I fling myself on my shower floor and lay there, still in my running clothes, with the bite of the frigid water on my skin. I must stay there for awhile, because when I finally scrub up, rinse, and climb out, my alarm is ringing to wake me. Scowling at my phone, I angrily swipe it off, which is wholly unsatisfying, and dress for the day.

 

I leave early and use the time to get ahead on grading papers and lesson plans. Since my students have no assignments to turn in today, I will have the entire weekend free to do whatever I want.

 

_Fuck, yes, Katniss. Fucking come on my cock._

 

The words caress down my neck and spine, trailing shivers in their wake. I sit up straight as my entire body flushes with delicious heat. I remind myself that I am stronger than that calendar and stronger than a dirty dream. By the time my first class files in for the day, I have myself convinced that it doesn’t matter. It was just a dream. A fantasy, and probably far from reality. I console myself and my neglected nether regions that Peeta Mellark is probably far too nice to say “fuck,” even in bed. And he’s probably not as big or skilled as I imagined him to be.

 

This goes a long way in getting me through the morning of discussions with my students. I'm about to claim a victory for myself when a shrill ringing fills the school. I jump in alarm and several of my students cover their ears against the piercing wail.

 

“Fire alarm!” I shout over the din. “Line up at the door quickly!”

 

I give Lillian a nod once they’re mostly assembled and she leads the line out the door and down the hallway, with me bringing up the rear. I wrack my brain and try to remember if a fire drill was scheduled for this week. As we gather in our appointed spot outside, I take quick attendance and turn to Annie.

 

“Alright, have a seat!” she calls out and her students collapse on the ground, chatting animately as only teenagers freed from work can do. When she sees me, she shrugs and cups her hands over her mouth to be be heard over the racket. “I didn’t see it on the schedule, did you?”

 

“No!” I shout back, shaking my head for good measure. Then I tell my students to have a seat on the grass, since this may be awhile.

 

“Miss Everdeen!” I turn towards the sound of name and watch Thom jog up to me. “Hey! We’re gonna practice again tomorrow morning at nine, if you’re available! Sorry about the last minute! Had to make sure we could get the field before I told anyone!”

 

He has to shout to be heard over the screech of the alarm, and I nod then echo the thumbs up he gives me to let him know I can make it to practice.  As he jogs off to let Annie know, too, the all too familiar sound of sirens catches my ear, steadily drawing closer. I close my eyes and repeat over in my head. _Not him. Not him. Not him._

 

There’s a squeal of brakes and the sirens cease. Students and teachers crane their heads as four fully garbed firemen walk past us towards the school building. They approach Principal Trinket and speak with her a few minutes. Her tall heels keep sinking into the grass and one of the firefighters holds out his arm to help her gain her balance then escorts her to one of the sidewalks before joining his crew as they enter the school.

 

A few minutes later, the alarm cuts off; the firefighters emerge shortly thereafter. One stops and removes his helmet and face mask to talk to Ms Trinket as the others keep watching. When the sun catches and reflects on the copper waves of the firefighter’s hair, I manage to look away. I’m beginning to think that I’m in the clear as the small group approaches when one of them slows down and reaches up to remove his headgear as well.

 

“We meet again, neighbor,” Peeta says and comes to a halt a few feet away from where I stand with my class. He tucks his helmet under one arm, and I ignore the whispering going on behind my back.

 

“Looks that way,” I say and shove my dream deep into the dark recesses of my mind. Perhaps it’s his boyish smile or the clear joy in his laugh in his photograph, or his seemingly bottomless well of kindness where older ladies and dogs are concerned, or the thrill of knowing he risks his life to help others that causes my heart to tug towards him. Or maybe it’s just those arms, which are sadly disguised beneath the bulk of his full gear, and the lust they inspire in my long neglected body. I’m getting worked up again, so I wave towards the school and speak without thinking.

 

“I work here,” I tell him.

 

“I can see that,” he says with a smile. Embarrassed at my rudeness to him last week and my apparent inability to carry on a conversation right now, I fiddle with the school ID hanging from a lanyard around my neck.

 

“Let’s go, Mellark,” the redhaired firefighter says, clapping Peeta on the back as he heads towards their truck, having clearly concluded his business with Principal Trinket. He spares me a quick glance, and I freeze as I recognize him.

 

“Be right there,” Peeta tells Mr. July then turns back to me. “See you later, Katniss.”

 

I wave stupidly as he follows Mr. July, the one with the strategically placed fire extinguisher, back to the firetruck and they clamber up to take their seats.

 

“Alright, everyone!” Ms Trinket announces. “Back inside and back to work!”

 

I’m not sure I can survive another week like this, I think as I trudge back into the building with my students.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies if it still looks screwy. I'm having formatting issues. This story is actually complete, but I'll be spreading out the posting of the chapters here because I'm supposed to be packing and getting ready to move, so yeah. Post a chapter, go pack boxes/go through and clean stuff for a few hours. That being said, I still want your comments! Constructive criticism is ALWAYS welcome. ;-)


	3. Callipygian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Callipygian - having or relating to beautifully proportioned buttocks

**Callipygian** \- having or relating to beautifully proportioned buttocks

 

* * *

 

 

I am not obsessed with Peeta’s ass.

 

I’m not.

 

I don’t stare at it when we cross paths on Saturday morning as I leave for practice and he’s bending over in the hallway to attach Rowdy’s leash before the pair goes for their run. I do not have to restrain my hands to keep from caressing it when I check my mail that afternoon and he’s there in his way too tight to _not_ induce wet dreams navy blue firefighter cargo pants. I do not dream that night of gripping his clenching buttocks while he rocks his cock into me. I _do not_ orgasm in my sleep as he whispers sweetly in my ear.

 

And I certainly do not lose my train of thought and miss a shot on a perfectly good buck Sunday morning because I’m thinking of the strip of dark green cotton I caught peeking out over his athletic shorts when I came home on Friday afternoon and chatted with him while he fixed the broken lock on Mags’ door. And there is no way on this green earth that I would ever, _EVER,_ re-examine his picture in a charity calendar over my breakfast on Monday morning, halfway wishing the picture featured his naked backside the way they did with Mr. January. At least then, I could stop wondering if his ass is as perfectly toned as his cargo pants make it appear.

 

Nor do I notice all sorts of new details upon this re-examination that never actually happened. Such as the fact that they stupidly photoshopped out the burn scar on the back and one side of his neck. A scar that I only noticed a few days ago because he wears his hair wavy and just long enough to obscure most of the scar.

 

I also don’t notice that there’s no underwear to behold on him in that calendar picture. That can’t be safe. Or sanitary. I would never gawk and moan over such a thing. In fact, I am quite proud of how well I’ve managed to behave like a normal human being around Peeta, despite all of the indecent thoughts that are not rambling through my head.

 

Until Rue saunters into class on Monday afternoon and grins at me before nonchalantly dropping the words _fire alarm_ and _hot_ and _neighbors_ into the same sentence somehow. I contemplate strangling one of my students when I flush automatically at her words, and she gives me a knowing look. If I didn’t need my job…

 

Somehow, I make it through the lesson and as the last of my students departs the room, I heave a sigh of relief.

 

“Soooooo, how’s your neighbor?” Rue sings, poking her head back into my classroom. I glare at her and she darts away.

 

“I will call your mother!” I shout petulantly and am rewarded with a spate of giggles.

 

We’ve got another short practice this afternoon, so I duck into one of the bathrooms and change then head out to the field to forget Peeta and his numerous charms. It works. A little. My hitting is a bit off, and even Thom can see it. But for the most part, practice goes well.

 

It’s not until I’m in my apartment staring at the pantry, not quite hungry, but needing something to do with my hands and mouth that I realize why I’m so on edge.

 

Two and a half years.

 

I groan in relief. It’s just lust. That’s it. I’ve spent two and a half years getting used to my job, getting Prim settled in college, finally grieving my father, still dealing with my mother’s brief but disruptive journey into alcoholism and depression. As a result, I haven’t had sex with something not powered by batteries since David the Pile Driver Marvel. Now there’s an epically bad mistake if ever there was one.

 

My attraction and obsession with my neighbor is merely fueled by hormones. A bodily response to an inhumanly attractive man who also happens to be genuinely nice. My kryptonite wrapped up in the sexiest package possible. Relieved that I am not depraved, just deprived, I pull out a bag of cereal and hold it clenched between my teeth as I get a bowl and the milk.

 

My phone rings, and I scowl slightly at Gale’s name, wondering why he’s calling me on a Monday. Still, I answer, my greeting garbled until I spit the bag out to fall onto the counter and repeat my words.

 

“Hey, Gale.”

 

“Hey, Catnip. Just wanted to let you know that I’m running late at work. I’ll be over for dinner, but probably not until after seven,” he says, confusing me further. Dinner?

 

My eyes land on a calendar hanging on my fridge (any and all firefighters absent from this one, thank you very much), and suppress a groan.

 

“Okay,” I say, hoping that I sound cheerful and not like I managed to forget my best friend’s birthday or our longstanding tradition.

 

“See you then,” he says and hangs up while I curse myself. I’m supposed to make dinner and a cake for him tonight. _Fuck!_

 

When we were kids, I worked all the time, between school and my part time job. It was more necessity than anything else. Despite my father’s long hours in the mines and my mother’s at the pharmacy, there was rarely ever enough money. Our financial stability wavered with the well-being of the mines and how many shifts my father could pick up a week. High demand meant the bills got paid, but my father was rarely home during those times. My working at a young age just made sense, especially if I wanted more than the bare minimums. And Prim has always had  a deep love for pretty hair ribbons and nail polish that I didn’t want to see squashed.

 

Friends, however, were next to impossible to afford decent gifts for, and Gale worked just as hard as I did to help his own family out. So we developed a tradition. He would prepare and serve a dinner the night before my birthday at his house, and I would do the same at my family’s house for his birthday. The tradition continued after both of us left that town and ended up here in Panem. He didn’t even mention it while we were hunting yesterday.

 

My pantry scrounging turns desperate as I search for enough complementary ingredients to make a decent meal. I won’t be able to manage anything elaborate this last minute, but it’s a school night. Gale will understand. I glance at the clock. I’ve got about two hours, so I could make a run to the grocery store if absolutely necessary, but I really need a shower after practice. Luckily, though, my pantry yields what I need.

 

Once I’ve scrounged up a cake mix and tub of frosting that I think I bought for the school’s spring bake sale but ended up not using, I focus on dinner. Orange marmalade, soy sauce, tarragon, some rice, and a bag of frozen green beans. Orange glazed chicken it is.

 

I shove the chicken in the microwave to defrost and get started mixing the cake. It uses the last of my eggs, but I should probably go to the store soon anyways. As soon as the cake’s in the oven, I put the defrosted chicken in the fridge and take a hasty shower, dressing in jeans and a t-shirt. This has never been a formal affair anyways.

 

Since I've got a few minutes before I need to start cooking in earnest, I tidy up my place a little. Then I walk myself through it in a series of methodical steps. Start the rice. Sear the chicken. Stir the rice. Flip the chicken. Mix the ingredients for the glaze. Set the chicken aside. Remove the cake from the oven. Stir the rice. Steam the green beans.

 

I'm doing pretty good on time when a knock on my door makes me jump. Glancing at the clock, I sigh. Gale’s early. It's just past six. I check my fridge and relax. I've got a couple beers on hand, at least enough to cover my lackluster cooking job and to keep him busy since now he's gonna have to wait for the glaze and the green beans to finish.

 

I fling the door open and blink in surprise.

 

“Hey,” Peeta greets me. “You ready?”

 

“Ready?” I ask and as the word leaves my mouth, I remember. “Monday. Dessert with Mags.”

 

“You forgot,” Peeta says, but there's nothing malicious in his tone.

 

“Seems to be the week for that,” I say, folding my arms over my chest and trying to keep in how awful I feel. Mags extended the invite to both of us as a ‘thank you’ for fixing her door, a task the super should have taken care of, but that man is a bag of useless. “Tomorrow's my best friend’s birthday. I'm making dinner for him. Long tradition.”

 

“No problem,” Peeta says. “I'll let Mags know. But you know she'll want to invite you for another day. When would be good for you?”

 

“That's fine,” I say and look nervously at my watch. I still need to frost the cake. “Maybe Wednesday? I’ve got to help with the school play tomorrow.”

 

“Is something burning?” Peeta asks, his nose wrinkling, and I'm about to tell him that I don't have time for his jokes when my smoke detector goes off.

 

“Shit!” I yell and race back towards the kitchen. There's the smell of blackened something but no flames. I grab a towel and start waving it in front of the smoke detector. Peeta stands beside me, then picks up my oven mit and moves the cake pan to the sink. The detector finally stops it's shrill complaints, just in time for me to hear the sizzle of the cake pan hitting the residual droplets of water left in the sink.

 

“What the hell?” I ask. I took that out of the oven twenty minutes ago. I stare at my stovetop and the burner where the cake was sitting to cool -- because I have limited counter space in my tiny kitchen -- glows red. Peeta flips it off and stands back with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders shaking.

 

“Don't you dare laugh,” I say.

 

“No, I wouldn’t,” he says, although I can tell he’s trying very hard not to.

 

“I must have forgotten to turn it off after the chicken was done.”

 

“Mmm-hmmm,” Peeta says, and I snort. Then I can’t keep it in anymore. A crazed laugh bubbles up from deep inside me. I turn and rest my forehead on Peeta’s shoulder, my own shaking with stress and disbelief.

 

“Can I laugh now?” he asks.

 

“No!” I say, and he holds a hand over his mouth.

 

“When’s your friend supposed to be here?” Peeta asks when we manage to get ourselves under control.

 

“Seven,” I tell him as I check the glaze for the chicken.

 

“Plenty of time,” Peeta says, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

 

“I’m out of eggs,” I admit. “And that was the only cake mix I had.”

 

“Cake _mix_?” Peeta sputters. “Oh it’s worse than I thought. I’ll be right back.”

 

“Okay,” I say, a little annoyed with Peeta’s assessment of my cooking skills. It’s last minute. I’ve been distracted. While he’s gone, I focus on getting the chicken finished so I can leave it to simmer in the glaze for a bit. I’ve just started washing some of the dishes when Peeta comes back in, carrying a large mixing bowl filled with ingredients, topped with a crate of strawberries.

 

“I let Mags know what’s up. She says Wednesday is good for her and not to worry. Your friend like strawberry cake?” he asks.

 

“I think so?” I say, and have to admit that I have no idea what flavor cake Gale likes. I’ve always just made a yellow boxed cake with chocolate frosting. He’s never complained. I dry my hands and eye the ingredients Peeta’s unloading onto my counter. Eggs, flour, sugar…

 

“I don’t know how to make one from scratch,” I tell Peeta.

 

“I do,” he says and I shake my head to refuse his offer of help. “It’s the least I can do since I distracted you at your door for so long.”

 

 _You have no idea_ , I think but bite my tongue.

 

“Besides,” he continues when I don’t speak. “This way, you can focus on dinner. You’ve got a fire extinguisher in here, right?”

 

“Under the sink,” I say, a little annoyed that he’d think I’m that flaky.

 

“Good. By law, the owner’s supposed to make sure there’s one in every apartment, but…”

 

I smile in response to the teasing one he flashes me. We both know Seneca Crane is a negligent owner at best. His maintenance super, Anton Cray, rarely answers his phone and is slow to respond, even to emergencies.

 

“Okay,” I say. “I guess I can allow it.”

 

Peeta’s smile widens as he starts mixing the batter and I’m able to focus on everything else. Sort of. My kitchen is cramped with his broad frame in it and we keep bumping elbows, but it’s kinda nice having company while I cook. He asks me about the school play and then gets me telling stories about Prim. I spend way too much time talking about her and then tug nervously on my braid as he pours the batter into the two round cake pans he brought over.

 

“So where’d you learn that?” I ask waving towards the pans.

 

“To make a cake from scratch?” When I nod, there’s a brief flash of sadness on Peeta’s features before he smiles again. “My parents owned a bakery, and my brothers and I started helping out when we were kids. Picked up all kinds of skills along the way.”

 

“So I should expect great things out of that cake,” I say, and Peeta laughs. I like the sound. Warm and vibrant. Then he opens the oven door and bends over to insert the two pans into the waiting heat.

 

Oh sweet mother of pearl.

 

His jeans stretch across his ass, and I can’t seem to tear my gaze away. My entire body heats, and the flex of his arm muscles as he braces one hand on the counter to make standing upright once more easier is not helping my situation. And just like that, our pleasant time together turns into me salivating over my neighbor’s delectable rear end.

 

I manage to stop gawking before he turns to me and try for a smile as he sets a timer.

 

“How’s the dinner?” he asks.

 

“Um, it just needs to simmer a little longer,” I tell him.

 

“Okay, then I guess I should get out of your hair,” he says and stuffs his hands in his pockets during the awkward pause. Only, I don’t want him to go just yet. And I actually want him all up in my hair. Another look at the clock tells me Gale still won’t be here for another half hour or so.

 

“Frosting?” I say, and for a second, I think I see relief in Peeta’s gaze.

 

“Right,” he says, and immediately steps back up to the counter. “Can’t leave you without frosting. Did you move the butter?”

 

“Back in the fridge,” I tell him. “What else do we need?”

 

Peeta lists the ingredients and I gather them in one spot. Our elbows and hips rub as I puree what’s left of the strawberries for the frosting and he creams the butter. I want to ask him about his family’s bakery, but the strange look of sadness prevents me from doing so. Just this, quiet conversation as I tell Peeta about my students and he regales me with tales of keeping Rowdy under control near the hot dog stands that crop up every autumn on nearly every city block.

 

“Here. I think it’s ready for a taste,” Peeta says, dipping a spoon into our frosting and holding it up for me. He smiles as I take the spoon and lick every last bit of the fluffy yet somehow creamy frosting. The look he gives me is so sweet and shy that my cheeks burn in pleasant warmth. “Good?”

 

“It’s amazing,” I say. “Ever thought about hiring out your services?”

 

“I doubt there’s a real market for last minute cake rescues,” he says and flips the frosting over a few more times before setting aside the bowl and bending over to check on the cake.

 

I don’t check out his ass. I don’t. Christ, those are either some well tailored jeans or his rear is perfectly proportioned. Two taut, rounded cheeks begging to be smacked, squeezed, and spurred.

 

“Want anything to drink?” I ask as he pulls the cake from the oven and checks it with a toothpick. His eyes flick up towards the clock.

 

“I’d love to, Katniss. But isn’t your friend supposed to be here soon?”

 

He is. I check my phone. No messages. Peer under the lid of my pan. The chicken’s done. I turn off all the burners and gnaw on my lower lip.

 

“I should see where he is,” I say and swipe to my favorites. As the phone rings, Peeta scrapes bits of my first attempt at a cake out of the baking dish with a spatula. He holds up the section and I snort and cover my mouth. The entire bottom of the cake is charred.

 

“Can I laugh _now_?” he mouths at me and I shake my head. He bites his lip as his shoulders quake in silenced laughs, his cheeks turning pink. And as Gale’s phone goes to voicemail, I think it wouldn’t be a half bad idea to fuck my neighbor. It’d solve all my problems.

 

I can’t leave a message now. I’ll either be unintelligible because I’m laughing too hard or sound like a person possessed with lust. So I hang up and offer Peeta the beer that’s in my fridge. Salacious distractions aside, I am having too much fun with him to let him go just yet.

 

We settle on opposite ends of my couch, both with a cold beer in our hands. I curl my feet up on the couch, tucking them back between the cushions as Peeta takes a swig of his drink.

 

“Why firefighting?” I ask and he laughs nervously.

 

“Uh, well. It’s not exactly a happy story,” he says, picking at the label of his beer.

 

“I’ve talked all night about my sister and my job,” I say, suddenly curious. He takes a deep breath, one hand scrubbing absently over his neck.

 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he jokes with a half smile. But I’ve seen his full real smile, both in a photograph and in person now. This one’s meant more to set me at ease. Or maybe himself. “My dad was a big fan of using brick ovens. Fire instead of electricity. Old fashioned, but he swore it made everything taste better.”

 

A pit of nausea settles in my stomach as I take a wild guess at where this is going.

 

“We lived in an apartment over the bakery and one night, when I was fourteen, someone didn’t fully dampen the fire or something, I dunno. But the fire alarms hadn’t been checked in months. My parents didn’t make it. Their room was right above the ovens. Coroner said that they’d asphyxiated before the flames got to them. When my brothers and I woke up, though, the fire was already blocking our way out. The firefighters got me and both my brothers out through our bedroom window.”

 

His fingers rub his neck again and it occurs to me that maybe he asked the photographer to remove his scars in his picture. I stare down into the narrow opening of my drink and fight back the guilt. I’d thought he must’ve lived a charmed life. No one who’s experienced real pain or loss could be so kind and thoughtful. Or so I’d once believed.

 

“So on that cheerful note,” he says, breaking the tension in the room. We both smile nervously, but I’m also thinking that knowing this about him just makes him that much more desirable. I imagine a boy staring wide eyed up at a fully geared firefighter. His savior. But there’s something so sad about it, too. About Peeta as a man constantly trying to save his parents from that fire.

 

I swallow and blink back tears, shift on the couch, trying to shove aside the thought that isn’t that exactly what Prim and I did too? If my mother’d had access to psychiatry professionals or even just decent health care, maybe she wouldn’t have checked out on Prim and I. If my dad had had a shot at a decent education, he might not have been working himself literally to death in those mines.

 

We sit there staring at one another, the weight of shared loss lifting off shoulders. I feel strangely light, breathless, thinking that Peeta went through perhaps some of the worst pain imaginable and came out on the other side somehow hopeful and optimistic. I lean slightly towards him, wondering if I kissed him, would I be able to taste that hope on his lips.

 

“I’m sorry, Katniss,” he says, suddenly standing. I follow him, disoriented and leaving my half-empty bottle on the coffee table. “I didn’t mean to be such a downer.”

 

“No, it’s fine,” I insist, but he’s already moving towards the kitchen.

 

“Cake’s probably cooled off enough to frost,” he says. I pause behind him, watching the purposeful movements of his hands as he removes one layer from the pan, setting it on a platter and expertly frosting it. Fourteen years old.

 

“I was sixteen when my dad had a heart attack,” the words slip out unbidden. Peeta pauses in his frosting but continues as I keep talking. I’m grateful that he doesn’t focus on me. “Mine shaft collapsed and trapped him and ten others. They couldn't get him out in time to save him. All the others he was with survived. But my dad died in a filthy coal mine. My mother started drinking and was fighting depression, but there wasn’t much we could do to help her. I basically had to be Prim’s mom after that.”

 

The knife Peeta’s using drops, a soft _clink_ as he sets it on the counter and turns to face me.

 

“Aren’t we the life of the party?” he says with a sardonic smile, but he opens his arms as I step towards him, and even though I’ve just started really getting to know him, I fall into his embrace. His arms enfold around me, his hands rubbing soothingly up and down my spine. His head drops as I melt against the warmth of his chest, his cheek resting on top of my hair, his heart thudding softly against my cheek. And it feels _so_ good. I can’t remember the last time someone held me like this. The world could burn down around my ears right now, and still, I wouldn't want to let Peeta go.

 

When we finally step apart, Peeta cups one of my cheeks in his hand.

 

“Thank you, Katniss,” he whispers. I shrug, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions I usually keep buried clawing their way to the surface.

 

“I’d be without a cake if you hadn’t stopped by,” I say, and finally, Peeta smiles again.

 

“No I think you’d have found a way. But I’m glad you let me help.”

 

I want him to stop talking. I want his lips on mine. I want the fantasy and the dream and the inevitable heartbreak when he realizes just what a mess I really am.

 

So of course, that’s when there’s a firm knock on my door. We jolt apart and Peeta blushes, his hand ruffling his messy hair, and I envy his palm for a moment before I realize it’s probably Gale at the door.

 

“I should go get that,” I say, pointing stupidly towards the door.

 

“Yeah,” he answers, picking the frosting covered knife back up. “I’ll get this done and then disappear, okay?”

 

My tongue tangles around an invite for him to stay, but I can’t seem to push the words out of my throat. So I nod and go to answer my door.

 

“My phone died,” Gale says as he steps into my apartment, sweeping anger and resentment along in his wake. “And I fucking swear that my boss is the devil.”

 

“It’s okay,” I say, and Gale stomps past me towards the kitchen. I scramble after him.

 

“Got any beer?” he asks, and before I think to warn him… “Who the fuck are you?”

 

“Hey! I’m Peeta. Katniss’ neighbor across the way.”

 

“What the fuck’s he doing here?” Gale asks, his face a sudden storm. I’ve seen him angry and ranting before, but never had it directed at me like this.

 

“I had a cake emergency,” I spit out, resenting the fact that five minutes ago I felt warm and comfortable, and _happy_ , and now that he’s here to celebrate his birthday, a tradition which is supposed to be joyous, Gale has turned into a raging volcano and wiped that all away. “Peeta was just helping me.”

 

“And now that I’m done, I’m leaving,” Peeta says, rinsing the knife and putting it in the dishwasher. He wipes his hands on his jeans and extends one to Gale with a smile on his face. “Happy Birthday, man.”

 

Gale stares at the hand for a moment, but finally takes it and they shake. I release a loud huff of exasperation, uncertain why the air is so thick with tension.

 

“Don’t let us keep you,” Gale says draping his arm over my shoulder and hauling me into his side, and I want to punch him. Peeta takes the comment in stride, though I can see his shoulders stiffen a little.

 

“See you later, Katniss,” he says, hands stuffed in his pockets again. As he heads towards the door, I shove Gale’s arm off me to follow him, throwing a glare over my shoulder at Gale. Birthday or not, bad day or not, there’s no reason for Gale to be this damn rude.

 

“Thanks for your help,” I say as I catch the door before it can close behind Peeta. “And I’m sorry about Gale. He’s had a long day.”

 

“It’s really no trouble, Katniss,” Peeta says, and his smile is back on his face.

 

“Well, it means a lot to me,” I say, and impulsively stand on my toes, pressing a furtive kiss to his jaw. Before I can see his reaction, I dive back into my apartment, heart thudding and hands shaking.

 

Why the hell did I do that? I blame it on that perfect ass of his.


	4. Apodyopis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apodyopis - The act of mentally undressing someone.

**Apodyopis -** The act of mentally undressing someone.

 

* * *

 

**_Mom:_ ** _ What plans? What’s so important you can’t make it home? _

 

My fingers ghost over the keys as I try to find the right words to explain to my mother that her home is no longer my refuge from the world. Prim’s presence no longer enough to turn that hollow house into a home. I love my sister. She may be the only person in this world that I am certain that I love. Maybe I loved my mother at one point, but I stopped when she stopped loving us. And while Prim has forgiven her, I can’t.

 

I type out a hundred things and erase them all before finally tossing my phone on the end table and stretching out on the couch with both arms draped over my eyes. I should get up and move, finish getting ready for work. But my arms and back ache.

 

Thom’s been driving us hard for almost two weeks now, determined to mold us into a viable team before the series tomorrow. Between work, the school play, and the additional baseball practices, I haven’t done much other than collapse in my bed at night.

 

Thankfully, exhaustion has kept my sleep relatively dream free. With the added bonus that as the days have progressed through the calendar, I am increasingly able to speak to Peeta without hearing the dream version of his voice ordering me to come on his cock. Vast improvement in my social skills.

 

Sadly, I still can’t stop staring at his ass and arms when he’s not looking. I’m working on it.

 

You’d think that after several weeks of actually spending real time around him, the effect of that stupid calendar picture would wear off. Nope. It hasn’t. So even though we’ve fallen into a kind of routine, and maybe even become friends in a way, I still flush from head to foot when I lower my guard and in waltz uninvited thoughts of him naked. Okay, not completely uninvited.

 

“Katniss?” he calls through my door and knocks, making me smile at how my wandering thoughts of him often seem to make him materialize. 

 

“It’s unlocked. I can’t move,” I groan. I listen to the sounds of him walking across my apartment. His heavy tread and the squeak of the floorboard right before he reaches my couch.

 

“Brought you breakfast,” he says and I groan again. He sets a tupperware down on my coffee table and then thuds into the kitchen. I listen to the sounds of him moving around in there, starting coffee, and whimper in anticipation as the pungent smell wafts into my nostrils.

 

“It’ll be easier if you move around. Stretch your muscles and work out the soreness,” he says when he returns, two mugs clinking onto the coffee table as he speaks.

 

“Don’t wanna,” I protest, but his hands clasp mine and lift my arms off my face. The sight of him in his uniform, a smile on his face, sends my skin tingling, and I let him pull me upright. I still grumble at him, though, “Devil.”

 

“And I brought temptation with me,” Peeta chuckles, and plops down next to me before peeling back the covering on the dish and holding it up for me to select my breakfast pastry. 

 

This has become our new norm. On days when Peeta works nights, he usually brings home whatever he made at the firestation, as long as there weren’t many fires he had to respond to. Even then, he’ll stop at a bakery or coffee shop on his way home to get us something. We eat breakfast while I complain about my previous day at work and Thom, although the rehearsals for the play are going well. When it’s time for me to leave for work, I’m relaxed and full, satisfied; and Peeta heads back to his place to sleep until he has to be back at work. Usually, I won’t get home from baseball or theater practice until after he’s already left. But I’m glad we at least get these few quiet moments together.

 

On weekends, after my I’ve finished my movie with Prim, I’ll head across the hall to either his place or Mags’ and we’ll cook a dinner together. Afterwards, we’ll stretch out on either his couch or mine, Peeta’s hands flying over the pages of his sketchbook and my nose buried in my book, our sock covered toes meeting on the middle cushion. I love those quiet evenings.

 

It took me awhile to get used to the way Mags communicates. She had a stroke a while back and her speech is heavily slurred now. Mainly, she relies on sign language. At first, I stumbled through dessert with her and Peeta, a few nights after Gale’s birthday dinner. Ms. Seeder, our music teacher and also the school’s signing interpreter, has been teaching me on our school lunch breaks. Annie’s been learning, too. I’m not great at it, but I can now follow most of what Mags and Peeta say, especially since Peeta speaks while he signs to her.

 

Neither one of us has mentioned my impulsive kiss on his jaw. Sometimes, I think I catch him staring at my lips, but then he cracks a joke or draws my attention to something else, and that moment of certainty that he wants to kiss me as much as I want to kiss him, vanishes in a puff of smoke.

 

“You guys ready for tomorrow?” he asks and I nod as I tear into my pastry and moan, content this time instead of in pain. So flaky and fluffy. I manage to swallow before I speak, although I really want to savor this delectable treat.

 

“Yep. Thom’s been talking to the other schools’ teams. He thinks we’ve got a shot at second place at the least. You’re going down, Fire Boy,” I taunt.

 

“Fire boy?” he asks, his eyes sparking in laughter, and a small thrill shimmies through my limbs. “You forget the cops almost always win this thing.”

 

I shrug. “No cops here for me to trash talk.”

 

“Not gonna be much use to your team if you’re hurting,” he teases and takes a large bite of his own pastry.

 

“I’ll be fine,” I insist and grab my mug of coffee. I wince as I sit back up with it in my hands. I glance at Peeta and can see that he knows I’m in more pain than I’m letting on.

 

“Here,” he says, setting his mug down and then taking mine to place it next to his on the table. He stands and motions for me to lay down. “On your stomach.”

 

For a moment, I hesitate, but the taunt I see forming in his eyes as his lips curl in a smile, shuts me up quick. I flop onto my stomach and bite back the twinge of pain in my lower back.

 

“Just relax,” he soothes, and then his hands grip my shoulders and start kneading. After about two minutes of this, I’m boneless and moaning loudly. I sound like a cheap porno and don’t even care, because his hands are somehow finding and loosening two or three weeks worth of knotted muscles. “Feel good?”

 

“Ung. Don’t stop,” I say in response, and he laughs lightly. As he works over my back, I become one with the couch, my eyes closed as I relax under his touch. He shifts and I feel his knee wedge between me and the couch so he can get a better angle.

 

“Is this okay?” he asks as his hands move to my lower back and work a particularly tense spot.

 

“Fuck, yes,” I release in an elongated moan, and this time, Peeta’s laugh is full and rich. It has a different effect on me, though, as my dreams of him return full force with his thighs bracketing my body. I’m so warm and relaxed and not caring about anything but the feel of his hands on me that the arousal sweeps through me and pools in my panties before I can blink or even lift my defenses against it.

 

“I should probably get to work,” I say and wriggle to get up, but he’s on top of me, and we awkwardly shuffle for a moment or two before we manage to get ourselves back to our original position, seated on the couch.

 

“Yeah,” he says, leaning forward to cover the tupperware once more, but not before offering me another pastry, which I take, because they’re really good. Peeta gathers up his things while I scarf down my pastry and try not to blush furiously about the lust driven thought stampeding through my brain. I dig my nails into my thigh, hoping the pain will halt my contemplation of straddling him on my couch, his booted feet planted solidly on my floor while I ride him until we both scream in release. 

 

I stand abruptly, and Peeta does the same, turning away from me to swing his backpack onto his shoulder. It’s the first time I’ve felt awkward around him since the night he helped me with Gale’s cake. And I hate it.

 

“And I should get to sleep,” he says, running a hand through his hair.

 

“Thanks for breakfast,” I say as he practically sprints towards the door, and he smiles at me, his blue eyes not as bright as they usually are when he smiles.

 

“Anytime, Katniss,” he says, and then he’s gone.

 

I stand there, arms crossed, berating myself. Of course he wants to get away from me. I probably reek of desperation. And how many women who’ve seen his picture in that calendar throw themselves at him? I don’t want to be just another one of them.

 

With a low growl, I head into my room and fling clothes from my closet before finally finding my school t-shirt and a clean pair of jeans. Thom insists we wear it today and remind our students of the series tomorrow. The more people who attend, the better our chances of getting enough money to buy what the staff voted on. New laboratory equipment for the science department. Half my microscopes don’t function properly and Annie’s working with lab glass that was purchased back in the sixties, and over half of the school’s original stock is broken by now. And if we manage to raise enough, the band apparently needs a couple new tubas.

 

When I leave my apartment, I glance over at Peeta’s door while I lock mine, thinking of the feel of him over me, his hands on me, and how stupid I’ve been, walking a fine line between basically throwing myself at him and wanting him as a friend. That never works out, so I need to get over my attraction to him. Maybe a quick lay with someone else. Someone I don’t really care about losing, even though casual sex clearly isn’t my thing. Oh who am I kidding. Sex in general hasn’t been my thing.

 

I throw myself into work, and even though I’m tough on my students, the reminder at the start of each of my classes that the Panem Metro Baseball Series is tomorrow seems to get them to brighten despite their workload. A decent number of them promise that they’ll be there tomorrow, rooting for the School District teams, and ours in particular.

 

“Wouldn’t miss it, Miss E. Especially not since you and Miss Cresta are at every football game,” Eddy promises as he leaves the classroom after fifth period.

 

“Thanks, Eddy. Drag your team with you if you can. Discounted tickets for students.”

 

“I will. See you tomorrow!” 

 

He hurries off to his next class and I flop down into my desk chair, letting my arms hang over the edge and my fingers to drag on the floor. After Peeta’s massage this morning, I feel a hundred times better. The Icy Hot I’ve been slathering on my skin between classes has been helping, too. 

 

Closing my eyes, I let the harmonious cacophony of students in the hallway wash over me. Someone slams a locker. A brief shout of raucous laughter. Someone calling down the hallway for their friend. The thunk of text books on metal. The symphony of chatter in tune with the zippers of book bags. A random curse word hastily shushed as a teacher walks by and the perpetrator murmurs a greeting.

 

As draining as my job can be at times, I can’t imagine doing anything else with my life. The bell shrieks and stragglers shout and run. Classroom doors slam. Then the quiet. I smile and breath a sigh of relief. Sixth period is my free hour before my last class of the day. An entire hour, which would be great if I truly had it all to myself, but there’s a stack of lab reports and quizzes to grade. Their first test of the year to finalize.

 

I work quickly, hoping that I’ll have a few minutes at the end of the hour to just sit here and breathe. Luck is on my side, and I have only one interruption - a student from Annie’s class asking to borrow an extra set of lab goggles. I point her towards the supply room and keep working. By the time I make the last edit on my test, I’ve got twenty minutes left before the bell and just the quizzes left to grade. 

 

Screw it. I can grade those on Sunday while Prim and I watch our movie, rescheduled to accommodate the series tomorrow. Besides, my last class will need to take the quiz as well. I shove the stack into my satchel and shut my door before lounging in my chair and groaning in relief. Twenty minutes of peace.

 

There’s a phantom tickle on my neck and I try to brush it off, but it persists. The calloused pads of fingers teasing forth chills and delightful shivers. No. I  _ won’t _ fantasize about Peeta at school. Getting up, I walk around my classroom, try to focus on reviewing the lesson for my last class, but my mind keeps wandering. I’ve done it three times already today, and have it memorized.

 

Finally, I capitulate, determined that this will be the last time I allow myself to daydream of Mr. May. Firm in my belief that a casual screw will finally eradicate him from my subconscious desires, I indulge myself. Just this one last time. Close my eyes again as I face the classroom window and tilt my chin so the sun falls across my face. It doesn’t take much to conjure a mental image of him. He’s so often lingering on the fringes of my awareness, it’s almost as easy as crooking a finger to bring him to the forefront.

 

I just want to stare at him, and his impossibly long lashes that I am clueless as to how they don’t get all tangled up. I hadn’t even noticed them until we spent a lazy Sunday morning on my couch a week ago. His face took on this intense look of concentration as he sketched something, and I took the chance to ogle him shamelessly.

 

That’s how I imagine him. Glowing in morning light with his sketchbook on his lap, only distracted when I run a hand up his leg and knock the book out of place. In my head, our kisses are hazy and vague. Somehow, I don’t want to ruin them with my imperfect imaginings. Instead, I watch his blue eyes darken as I slide my hands under his shirt and push it up over his head. That look of his, the one he wears when he’s sketching lends itself well to desire, and heat curls in my belly as he fingers loose strands of my hair while I undo his jeans. Frissons dance down my neck and spine to pool into an urgent ache between my legs. We stand to make it easier, my eyes locked on his chest, easy to imagine since I’ve already stared for far too long at a picture of it. As his jeans drop, I run my hands over the planes, the dips between his abs, up to circle his nipples.

 

The air constricts in my lungs as I glance back up at him. I have no idea what he’d say in a moment like this, with his jeans pooled on the floor and only his dark green boxer briefs between us. His eyes light with a teasing comment he bites back, and I am overwhelmed with the urge to taste his tongue. To know the deepest secrets of his mouth.

 

Instead, I try to keep myself distant, stroke lower over his sides and toy with the waistband while he kicks aside his jeans. Curiosity gets the better of me and I run my hands up over his back. How far does his burn scar extend, I wonder? Does it cover his back? Curl around over his ribs? I’ve not asked him about it and my lack of knowledge frustrates me, muddles my ability to imagine undressing him. So I skip my hands upwards, only vaguely feeling ridges until I am able to wind my fingers in his wavy hair.

 

There’s still the insurmountable obstacle to my imaginings, though. I’ve seen his legs when he wears his running shorts, and his work pants and jeans have lent me enough to spur my imagination forward in regards to his ass, but there’s still a part of him that’s a mystery to me. I run my fingers back down over his torso, feel the lift of his chest as he breathes heavily. Down lower until I pick up the golden trail, trace it down to the green fabric and tug.

 

I feel woefully inadequate and blush furiously, turning away from the window and my inappropriate for work fantasies. I brush Peeta’s touch and eyes and smile and everything away from me and try to lock it deep inside. I sink into my chair and rest my cheek on the cool surface of the desk, willing my body to calm down.

 

Yes, it’s been a while, but in truth, there weren’t even that many. David the Pile Driver Mitchell, and before that, a few fumblings with my college boyfriend. We were both virgins and learning as we went. And really, I’m not sure we ever improved. I’d been too afraid to tell Darius what I wanted, and he’d been so eager to please, but as inexperienced as me. It wasn’t really  _ bad _ , just not great.

 

Now it’s time to let go of this fantasy Peeta and face reality. I can’t sleep with my neighbor and friend. He’s the hot firefighter with a half nude picture in a calendar with roughly half of the over eighteen -- and probably a good bit of the under eighteen -- population of the city salivating over his arms and abs and happy trail the same as I’ve been. And I’m just the plain science teacher who hides herself in her apartment most of the time and can’t even bring herself to tell her mother the truth about why she doesn’t want to go home for Thanksgiving.

 

“Ugh,” I mutter and force myself to stand. To pull it together. I have a class to teach. By the time the bell rings and my students begin to trickle in, I am confident that all traces of my ill-advised private time have vanished.

 

I spend most of the class facing the board, scrawling chemical equations. When they groan in response to the lengthy formulas and diagrams, I toss a half scowl over my shoulder at them.

 

“I know, last class of the day. Let’s focus, though. It’s only a little bit of chemistry, after all, if you’re going to understand biology, you need to understand the building blocks. DNA, yes, but at it’s fundamental heart, orgasmic compounds. Hush or I’ll add two questions to your quiz,” I say as half the class giggles and snorts behind me.

 

Pushing through the lesson is painful as I’ve somehow lost half the class. They’re riled up and keep giggling. It’s a Friday from hell, and I suddenly can’t wait to get home. When the bell rings and I remind them of the game tomorrow, this causes an entirely new fit of giggling.

 

“Alright, get out of here and enjoy your weekend,” I say. When the last of them has departed, including Rue with a huge wink that makes me blush for unknown reasons, I stuff their quizzes in my satchel with the rest and get the hell out of there. I’m dreaming of soaking in my tub and maybe ordering in with Peeta or something, completely unaware of the drive home or my surroundings until I’m in the elevator and I realize what I said.

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” I shout as the doors slide open, and there’s the source of all my problems, dressed in that damn uniform of his and looking entirely too fuckable for my peace of mind as he lifts an eyebrow at me.

 

“Something wrong?” he asks.

 

“I just said ‘orgasmic compounds’ instead of ‘organic compounds’ to a bunch of adolescents. Otherwise, my day was  _ great _ . How was yours?” I snark at him.

 

“Uh, not bad. You wanna talk about it?” he says and swallows as I stomp off the elevator, shaking my head. He lets it go, the doors sliding shut and the mechanisms whirring as it descends for another passenger. And the way he’s looking at me makes me want to throw away all my good intentions and drag him into my apartment to fuck away all my frustrations instead.

 

“I have to go to work right now, but I wanted to talk to you about something,” he says, cutting through my rapidly rebuilding desires. “Maybe tomorrow night, after the series?”

 

Stupid damn baseball games. I clench my fists at my sides and nod. “Sure.”

 

“Cuz I’d hate to be accused of fraternizing with the enemy before the games start,” he teases weakly and I’m so stressed that even this small attempt at humor breaks through. I throw my head back and laugh.

 

“Yeah that’s fine,” I say, unable to think up anything more eloquent.

 

“Maybe we can order in a pizza? I’ll bring dessert if you bring the beer?”

 

“I’d like that,” I say, and it feels good. Feels right and comfortable, this shift back into friendship and I can’t believe I almost threw it all away and told him that he’s the living breathing fantasy that makes me curl my toes in sleep and the waking desire that’s been my near constant companion since he first really spoke to me.

 

“Alight. If I don’t see you before tomorrow, good luck.”

 

“You, too,” I say as he shifts and takes the stairs down instead.

 

He doesn’t feel that way about me, I remind myself and lock myself in my apartment after he leaves. He shouldn’t feel that way about me. How could he?


	5. Gymnophoria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gymnophoria - The sensation that someone is mentally undressing you

**Gymnophoria -** The sensation that someone is mentally undressing you

* * *

 

There’s a festive air in the park. Delicious smells of greasy fair and ballpark style foods linger on the gentle early autumn breezes. Laughter and the  _ ping _ of baseballs off metal bats can be heard at every turn. In front of me, Annie bends over, spinning the ball in her hand behind her back and staring down the stretch at an imaginary batter. Ms. Seeder punches her glove then settles into her stance and holds the glove up. Annie winds up and launches the ball at the plate, the impact a resounding  _ shunk! _

 

“Great! I think that’s good for a warm-up,” Thom says as Seeder throws back to Annie. “I’ve got our first game.”

 

He waves a white envelope in the air and the team jogs in to congregate around the makeshift pitcher’s mound. We all wait as he rips into the envelope labeled  _ D12 Schools: Game 1 _ . I try not to roll my eyes at the absurdity of treating this like it’s the Academy Awards. Thom claims they do this so no teams have the advantage. If you don’t know who you’re playing until five minutes before the game, there’s no way to prepare for a specific opponent. That’s fine, but I think it’s a waste of paper.

 

“Panem Police Department Precinct 2,” he reads and half our team groans. He speaks over the protests. “Hey! We get the tough one out of the way early. While we’re fresh.”

 

“Got a point there, coach,” Annie says, her eyes hard. Determined. She’s never struck me as the competitive type...but I could be wrong. “What field?”

 

“Field 6. We better head over to the opening ceremonies. They start in five minutes,” Thom says. We gather our things and leave the practice area, headed for the park’s amphitheater. Already, a huge crowd has gathered. We huddle close together, knocking elbows, more because there’s not a lot of room than anything else.

 

I crane my neck and stand on tiptoes, scoping out the competition. The cops are easy to spot, all of them in grey baseball pants, black cleats, and blue jerseys with their numbers and names emblazoned on the back, the PPD crest and their precinct number on the front. How much did  _ that _ cost them, I wonder. They all look clean, polished, prepared, as opposed to us. Most of the school teams, like ours, are sporting t-shirts that declare which school they represent, but otherwise our attire is a hodge-podge. It’s nearly impossible to tell the Municipal Office teams from the crowd, except the sanitation department whose team is all wearing matching hats. 

 

“Are you all excited? I know I am!” A voice screams over a microphone and most of us jump. I stop my inspection of the crowd and look up to the stage, where a man with his bright blue hair is basically skipping and clapping. I’ve heard about Caesar Flickerman, but never seen him. He’s a larger-than-life radio personality, his morning talk show an apparent staple to residents of Panem. The one time I tuned in, they were dishing about breast enhancements, and after five minutes, I decided nothing they were saying merited their reputation as a news organization, so I never tuned in again. 

 

“Welcome!” he continues. “Welcome! To the fortieth annual Panem Metropolitan Baseball Series! Wow! That’s a mouthful! Alright! We’ve got our city workers!”

 

A lukewarm cheer lifts up over the crowd, and Caesar pouts.

 

“Come on now, you can do better than that. These are the folks responsible for your water, your trash, your roads, and--”

 

“AND YOUR TAXES!” someone yells and the crowd laughs.

 

“Right you are!” Caesar rolls with it. “We have Panem School Districts in the house!”

 

Beside me, Thom and Annie whoop loudly while the rest of us clap. At least we get a better response out of the crowd than the city workers, though.

 

“Panem Fire Department, burning it up!” A massive cheer rocks the park and Seeder laughingly covers her ears. As the noise dies down, someone whistles in a cat-call and Caesar laughs boisterously.

 

“Now now, Mr. Odair. Don’t steal my spotlight just yet. There will be time for that later!”

 

All of us stand tall and try to find the source of the commotion, but Caesar has moved on and there are just too many people.

 

“And of course, last year’s grand champions, winners of the series for five straight years! FIVE! The Panem Police Department!”

 

Louder than the substantial applause and cheers of the crowd, a military-style chant rings out and fists rise up over heads. “ _ Hoo-rah! Hoo-rah! Hoo-rah-rah! _ ”

 

“Assholes,” Annie mutters, rolling her eyes. Cecilia snorts and smothers her laughter.

 

“The rules!” Caesar declares, and the crowd hushes a little. “For the benefit of our new players and the public! Each group has been allowed six teams. Six teams! That’s two more than we had last year! I love the enthusiasm!”

 

More applause as Caesar shakes his microphone in apparent delight.

 

“Each team of twelve players will play three games of five innings each with a time limit of two hours. Lots of numbers, I know. Stick with me! Each team will play one opponent from each of the other three groups present. Teachers will not be playing against teachers and so on. At the end of the day, the group with the highest number of wins will receive the grand prize! That’s 40% of the proceeds raised! Second place receives 30%, third receives 20%, and last place, a whopping 10%.

 

“Want to know where that money will go? Visit the information table! Each sector has submitted a proposal on how they will spend their funds. Games, scores, and rankings will also be posted there as they are announced! Where’s all that money coming from, you ask? From ticket sales and our food vendors! So eat up and enjoy your day! See what fine men and women we have working for our great city!

 

“Coaches! You have your first game assignments! Proceed to your fields and let the games begin!”

 

We’re jostled as the crowd disbands, and I link arms with Annie so we don’t get separated, a move that ripples down the line until our entire team is somehow linked. Spirits are high now, even though we’re facing a no doubt tough opponent up first. When we reach the field, we drop our gear in the dugout. A few of our students have gathered in the bleachers and call out to us, waving exuberantly when they catch our attention.

 

“Ms. Cecilia! Hey! Kick their butts!”

 

“Bettin’ on you, Ms. Everdeen!”

 

“Sooooo-eeeeee!!!! Here piggy, piggy!”

 

“No heckling the cops until the game starts, Misses Leeg,” Ms. Jackson admonishes a pair of her students. Twin girls make faces and pout.

 

“Awwwww,” but then they giggle at the stern look and the shake of Ms. Jackson’s head. Jackson’s known for being one of the hard-nose teachers in the school, so I’m a little surprised that her students feel so comfortable being boisterous around her, but I guess the festive atmosphere has infected us all.

 

The umpires arrive and give both teams a quick review of the rules. Thom shakes hands with one of the cops, a hulking brute with close shaved blond hair and ice blue eyes, the name CATO on the back of his jersey. Thom winces and massages his hand as he walks back towards the dugout, patting Seeder on the shoulder as she takes a few practice swings. We’re up to bat first.

 

After two innings, the game remains scoreless. On our side of the field, the bleachers are a steady flow of teenagers and their parents. Chatter, the flash of phones as they snap pictures, and the occasional cheer for some of our more spectacular catches and a few boos when our better hits are caught.

 

The best part of it, though is that their coach, the brutish Cato, is evidently frustrated. He kicks the dirt a few times and tries to argue with the umps to no avail. Annie’s pitching and our enthusiasm in the field has kept them from scoring any runs, and it’s obvious that this infuriates Cato. When he starts snapping at his teammates, a grin invades Thom’s face and doesn’t leave.

 

“Only a matter of time. Only a matter of time before they crack,” he says as I toss the ball to the ump, having caught a high hit off one of their bats. The cop who hit it, C Baxter, sneers at me and flips her long dark ponytail over her shoulder.

 

“What the hell, Clove?” Cato looms over her as she runs back to the dugout. “You had that one!”

 

“Lay off, Cato,” she snaps, and shoves her way past him.

 

“Language!” I hear Eddy yell from the stands. “There are innocent ears present!”

I laugh quietly to myself, not bothering to point out how many f-bombs the football teams drop in the hallways, let alone on the fields.

 

Turns out, Thom was right. In the top of the third inning, their pitcher throws a nice easy one straight down the pike. Leevy swings and it bounces along the grass. The cops dive for it as we jump to our feet, yelling encouragement and Leevy sprints for first.

 

Their short stop over throws and with Thom screaming, Leevy takes off for second, sliding in just before the ball makes it to the base.

 

“Safe!” the ump announces and the bleachers next to our dugout erupts in raucous cheers.

 

It might not seem like much, but it’s enough. The tear in the other team rips wide open as Seeder manages a single and then I’m up to bat.

 

“Go get ‘em, Katniss,” Thom says enthusiastically.

 

Cato taunts me from first base, but I ignore him, focusing on the wiry guy they’ve put in as a replacement pitcher. He likes curves, that much was evident from the few warm up throws he pitched, so when it flies towards me, I’m ready. My arms shudder a little, vibrating as the metal in my hands connects and the ball soars up over their heads. Leevy and Seeder are already moving as my feet propel me towards first. 

 

There’s a snarl as Cato steps in front of first base, blocking my way. A shout as Thom protests the clear infraction, but I don’t care. I barrel into him full speed, a move he’s not expecting, tag the base and keep going as he stumbles, trying to regain his balance. Surprise is my ally.

 

As I near second, I vaguely hear Annie yelling, “Go third, Katniss! Go Third!”

 

So I do.

 

When the dust settles, I look up at the cops in the outfield. They’re arguing and gesturing wildly while Cato stomps over to them. Our team is giving high fives to Leevy and Seeder, and our students have taken up several of the more common chants belonging to our cheerleading squad, their feet stomping the bleachers. I brush the dirt off my pants and try to hide my smile.

 

After that, we score two more runs in the third before Precinct Two finally manages to get three outs on us. The tide of the game is in our favor, and even though the cops manage a few runs thanks to some power hitters who clear the fences, by the time Cecilia easily bags a pop fly in the fifth, the game is ours.

 

Thom can’t stop smiling as the umps sign off on our white card that we were the victors. Several of the students in the bleachers pick up a new cheer, and even though the words are lost in the noise of the crowds and the games at neighboring fields, I get the idea. They’re happy for us.

 

“Alright team!” Thom shouts, pumping the air with his fist. “Let’s get something to eat before our next game.”

 

As we make our way off the field, a familiar shape steps in front of me, his little sister perched on his shoulders.

 

“Gale!” I say with a wide smile. I can’t believe he actually bothered to come. After all of his rants about city taxes and sales taxes and property taxes and every other way the government drains money from the accounts of the hard working lower classes, the last thing I expected him to do was show up here and hand them more money.

 

“Hey, Catnip,” he says. Posy squeals and clambers down from his shoulders.

 

“You were so awesome, Katniss!” she shrieks and then throws herself at me. I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up out of me as she embraces me. “That was so exciting!”

 

“Posy wants to sign up for baseball come spring now. So thanks for that,” Gale says, but from the brief flash of humor in his eyes, I can tell he’s not actually angry.

 

“Oh! Gale!” Posy grabs his sleeve and tugs, pointing with her other hand towards one of the booths setup nearby to sell food. Gale glances over towards it and nods.

 

“We’re gonna go grab some food, you wanna join?” he asks.

 

“I’m gonna sit with my team, but you guys can join us.” I tell him and his brow furrows a little. I know he’s upset that we haven’t been out in the woods in a couple weeks. Like me, that’s where he feels most at home.

 

“Katniss?” a voice calls out, and I turn towards it. I blink a few times at the freckled face grinning and making his way towards me in the crowd. His carrot-red hair spiked and swooped, artfully styled, and a pair of aviator style sunglasses tucked on top of his head.

 

“Darius?” I echo the question and he nods before wrapping me in a bear hug.

 

“It’s been a long time,” he laughs before stepping back, my hands now caught in his as his eyes sweep down over me. They warm and he tilts his head, a stunned look of appreciation. “Wow! You look great!”

 

I stutter over any kind of decent reply as I realize that I am now talking to someone who’s seen me naked. The first man to see me naked, and given the way he’s looking at me right now, that’s what he’s thinking about too. My shoulders stiffen and I pull my hands back out of his with a nervous laugh. 

 

“Thanks,” I finally manage as Gale steps closer to me, and oh god, what a disaster. All I need now is for Peeta to waltz up and turn my brain to total mush. I glance down at what Darius is wearing as a distraction and swallow heavily. “So you wound up on the police force.”

 

“Yeah,” he says with pride and points towards the crest on his chest. “Precinct 12. And you’re…”

 

His eyes widen as he notices the school name and logo printed on my t-shirt. I cross my arms over my chest and plaster a smile on my face.

 

“You’re at District Twelve High? No way! We work right around the corner from each other.”

 

“Yeah,” I say.

 

“We should catch up sometime,” he continues. “Grab coffee or something.”

 

“Sure,” I say, because what else am I supposed to say to him? We broke up on pretty amicable terms. He left to study abroad and I started in on my teaching requirements at school. Neither one of us felt we could devote the time to keep our lackluster relationship afloat.

 

It occurs to me in a flash that I could have my casual fling with Darius. A means to break the dry spell and hopefully get over this ridiculous crush on Peeta. But the second I try to imagine myself in bed with the man in front of me, my stomach churns. 

 

Nope. 

 

That’s an even worse idea than sleeping with my hot neighbor. At least I’m attracted to Peeta. As I stand there and Darius attempts to keep some kind of conversation going, mainly about how our first game went, I can’t even muster a decent amount of curiosity about what he’s been up to in the years since I last saw him. He’s still kinda cute, sweet, and maybe a little funny, but that’s where my description ends. With Darius, I already know what I’d be getting, and I have no desire to experience that a second time around. Again, not  _ bad _ . Just not great either.

 

“So who’d you say you beat?” Darius asks, and I remind him. “Wow. I’m impressed. That precinct is tough as nails. Must’ve been having an off morning.”

 

For some reason, Darius’ admiration of them and dismissal of our win bugs me.

 

“Katniss,” Gale butts in during a lull in the conversation and I realize how rude I’ve been. I quickly introduce the two guys, and recognition flashes in both their eyes. They’ve heard about one another through me, and as Darius turns back towards me, I notice that his ears are turning pink. Or maybe it’s just the heat, I tell myself on this lovely and balmy September morning.

 

Once I finally manage to disentangle us from the conversation, Gale and I head for the vendors with Posy in trail. We don’t speak. I really don’t want to talk about Darius anyways, and the way he kept looking at me weighs heavy on my mind. I didn’t like feeling naked in front of him like that.

 

Nope, definitely can’t have a casual fling with ex-boyfriend who might get reattached.

 

“So that was...?” Gale starts once we have our food and have settled at a picnic table with the rest of my team. 

 

“Yep,” I say hoping he’ll drop it. Thankfully, he does. 

 

Posy has spotted some friends and has rushed off to talk to them, and as Thom sits down with a massive grin on his face, the atmosphere lightens. Gale still sits mostly silently beside me, and I catch myself jumping every time a flash of the red-sleeved baseball shirts the firefighters are wearing crosses into my line of sight. Other than that, though, my team is in high spirits, something that is hard to ignore.

 

“Attention all!” Caesar’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker system. “Results of the first round of games is in! And we have a surprise leader...PANEM SCHOOL DISTRICTS!”

 

Our table ignites as do several of the others as Caesar’s ecstatic laughter booms over the speakers. Even Gale cracks a smile.

 

“That’s right, Panem. Our teachers have nudged their way into the lead with four wins during the first round. In a tie for second, our firefighters and our police, with three wins each. And lastly, our city workers with two wins. Coaches! Come see us at the information booth for your next field assignment.”

 

Thom tells us to wait where we are and finish eating while he goes to get our assignment. When he gets back, there’s an audible groan as he announces that we’ll be playing the Mayor’s Office. While they may not be as tough of a team to beat as Precinct 2, there’s always that doubt when playing such high profile opponents.

 

“Field 9,” Thom announces and points towards it as we gather our things together and clear away our trash. “Meet you guys over there in ten minutes. Game starts in thirty.”

 

“Are you gonna stick around for the next game at least?” I ask Gale as the others straggle over towards the field, leaving just the two of us at the table. 

 

I feel bad. I’ve kinda been neglecting him. For years, we’ve spent time together in the woods. Just us, our bows, the animals, and the trees. It was our refuge in the chaos that came after our fathers died. His in a work-related accident just a few months after mine had passed, and both of us were left to shoulder familial responsibilities. Me because my mother couldn’t; him because his family was just too large for one person to manage, even Hazelle, as amazing as she is.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Posy’s having a great time. We’ll stick around until she gets bored.”

 

“Okay,” I say. Gale’s eyes flicker over my shoulder, and then before I can think or react, he presses a kiss to my cheek and walks off to gather Posy from her friends.

 

What?

 

We’ve never... I’ve never… there’s nothing romantic between us. There never has been. Why must boys complicate things so much?

 

I groan and grab my bag, but as I stand to leave, the small hairs on the back of my neck lift as a breeze wafts over me, cooling the sweat there as a shiver runs through me. When I turn to figure out who’s watching me, I spot Peeta. You’d think he’d blend in, wearing the same shirt as the rest of the firefighters. Light grey baseball tee with red sleeves and the PFD crest on the breast. He’s wearing catcher’s pads on his legs, and as the others firefighters near him chat and laugh, he doesn’t look away from me but smiles and waves.

 

My feet shuffle as they try to decide which way to go. I want to talk to him. Right now, with Darius and Gale making a muck of my thoughts, I could use some of Peeta’s dry wit and his bright smile to put things in perspective. And I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to one of his hugs either.

 

As if sensing my dilemma, Peeta excuses himself and walks over.

 

“Hey,” he says. I step towards him, and although his eyes widen for a second, he doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around me. We lean into one another, and Peeta’s hands smooth up and down my back. Relaxing warmth flows through my body, and I absently rub my cheek against his shirt. “Everything okay?”

 

“Long morning,” I say, and Peeta chuckles.

 

“We’re just getting started. How’d you guys do?”

 

“We beat Precinct 2,” I tell him.

 

“Nice,” he says. “Those guys are dicks.”

 

“You know them?” I ask, tilting my head back to look up at him.

 

“Eh, we have to work with the police departments a lot. They like to try and tell us how to do our jobs sometimes.”

 

“How dare they,” I say as we step apart. Peeta shrugs and ruffles his hair.

 

“Yeah, it sucks, but we deal with it. Who do you guys play next?”

 

“Mayor’s office,” I say. “You?”

 

“Precinct 4,” he says.

 

“Well, I should go,” I say and wave vaguely towards the fields. I don’t want to go yet, though. It seems to be a common problem that I have around him.

 

“Yeah, good luck, Katniss,” he murmurs.

 

“You too,” I call out as I jog away and try to calm the itch in my palms.

 

When I reach the field, my team has already started warming up. I drop my gear and quickly join them. Throwing myself into the game.

 

We’re still charged up from our win, and it’s clear by the second inning that the Mayor’s Office doesn’t stand a chance. When the score sits at 8 to 2 in the fifth, Thom suggests we go easy on them, to save some of our energy for our last game. But not  _ too  _ easy, he says with a smile. 

 

By the time the umps call game, and sign off on our card, it’s early afternoon. The sun scorches down on us while the autumn breezes keep it from being unbearable. The crowds have grown, and Thom is starting to look a little ill.

 

“What’s the matter, coach?” Bristel asks as we gather around a plastic cooler and guzzle the Gatorade.

 

“We’re undefeated so far,” he says. “That never happens.”

 

“Don’t jinx it,” Annie says and peels off her cap to adjust her ponytail. “I need that lab glass.”

 

“Right,” he says with a nervous laugh.

 

A few of the other games are still in progress, so we make our way back towards the amphitheater and the information booth to await Caesar’s next announcement. I glance onto the fields as we pass by, searching for blond curls peeking out from beneath a catcher’s mask or a hat out in the field. No luck.

 

I do spot Darius diving for a catch and then bobbling it as he throws to second. A cheer goes up as the runner is called safe and his team mate runs in to score.

 

“Water department seems fired up,” Leevy comments on the same game I was just watching. I shrug, not really caring.

 

We flop onto the grass and relax. Except Annie, who insists on stretching and keeping her arm muscles warm. Laying on my back, I turn my head and find a yellow dandelion. The cheerful yellow flower makes me smile. I close my eyes and enjoy the distant sounds of the games and relax, warm and content enough to slip into a half sleep state. I have vague dreams of days like this, filled with laughter and the brush of fingers through my hair, over my cheeks.

 

When Annie shakes my foot to wake me, I blink and cling to the delicious feeling of happiness that saturated my dreams. I’m not sure why, but it feels somehow connected to Peeta. I’m not given time to examine it, though, as Caesar Flickerman has mounted the stage again and picked up his microphone.

 

“Well folks, I can’t remember the last time we had such a close contest! Results are in! Panem Police and Fire Departments still in a tie with four wins each this round for a total of seven. Sadly, they’ve nudged Panem School Districts down to second place. Two wins this round brings their total to six.”

 

“It’s okay,” Thom insists as several of us hang our heads dejectedly. “There’s still one more round. And we won, so we’re doing our part.”

 

“Also with two wins this round, the city workers. Four wins total, but there’s still a chance. It’s anyone’s game!”

 

“He’s right,” I say, and stand, pulling Annie up beside me. “We beat Precinct 2. When was the last time those jackwagons gave up a game?”

 

“Uh...never?” Bristel asks.

 

“And we beat them,” Annie says standing next to me. “Katniss is right. Let’s go kick some firefighter tail!”

 

Rejuvenated, the team cheers and follows Thom to the information table. We stand off to the side as he collects our envelope and wait with bated breath as he tears into it. His face falls almost immediately.

 

“Field one,” he mutters.

 

“Well shit,” Howard Mitchell, one of our history teachers says.

 

“What?” I ask. “What does that mean?”

 

“Every year, the firefighters have one team that isn’t from just one station. They’re the firefighters who posed for that year’s charity calendar,” Annie explains.

 

“And they get field one and stay there the whole series,” Jackson picks up the explanation.

 

“They turn it into a whole production. Selling the calendars, working the crowds. They’ve got the crowd’s adoration,” Thom says. “And they almost always win.”

 

But I’ve only heard half the explanation, the rest of it drowned out as the word  _ calendar  _ sinks in.

 

Will I never be able to escape that damn photograph?

 


	6. Mamihlapinatapei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mamihlapinatapei - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.

**Mamihlapinatapei** \- The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.

* * *

 

 

Field one is like another planet. Extra bleachers have been set up, and although I spot Rue and a large group of her friends as well as a handful of other students and teachers, there are so many more in the full to bursting stands who are complete strangers to me. Unlike at the other fields, the small announcer’s booth is full and in use, music playing through the speakers. There’s a tent set up behind the firefighter’s dugout, selling the calendars and promoting volunteer work at the Twelfth and Oak Soup Kitchen, the charity group that receives the proceeds from the sales this year. As I watch, a woman who’s just purchased a calendar calls out to Mr. July and screams that she loves him. He blows her a kiss through the wire fencing of the dugout while her friends fan themselves.

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Annie grumbles. “You gotta be kidding me.”

 

If the rest of the park feels like a carnival, this little patch of it is the full-blown circus. And we’re the clown act.

 

I can’t help it; I scan the dugout for Peeta, and when he’s not there, switch to the field. Sure enough, he’s squatting behind home plate, full catcher’s gear on, taking warm up throws from their pitcher. His blond curls poke out from underneath the mask and his backwards ball cap. And if that wasn’t a dead giveaway, the number 5 partially obscured by the back straps of his chest plate and the word  _ MAY  _ in screaming fire engine red across his shoulders confirm it. 

 

Plus that ass.

 

“I’m with you, Annie,” I croak out. Jackson mutters an agreeing curse under her breath.

 

“Lighten up, girls,” Seeder says as one of the firefighters steps onto the field and stretches, holding his bat over his head for a few seconds before dropping and rotating his arms. His shirt falls back in place, once more concealing the strip of finely tuned abs that his stretching revealed. “This is gonna be fun.”

 

“Uh, let’s try not to get distracted, okay ladies?” Thom says and Mitchell scoffs.

 

“Hey,” Annie snaps and links arms with me. “It’s gonna take more that a bit of male flesh to throw us off our game. Isn’t it, Katniss?”

 

“Yes it is,” I hear myself say, even though history is not behind me on this one. Not with Mr. May on the opposing team. 

 

“Well, let’s get set up, okay?” Thom ushers us into our dugout and I studiously keep my gaze averted from Peeta.

 

I can feel his eyes on me. He knows I’m here, and it occurs to me that we’ve never once talked about his being in that damn calendar. Not once. I smirk as I realize that whatever reason he kept it a secret from me, I’m one step ahead of him. Two can play this game.

 

With a deep breath, I bend over to rummage in my bag, toss my glove on the bench then undo my hair. Stand back up flipping it over my shoulders, wrinkling my nose at how sweaty and gross it is. But since my back is to him, Peeta can’t see the face I make. I hastily rebraid it and put my cap back on. When I turn back to the field, my heart sinks. He’s huddling up with the other members of his team and not even noticing me. Damn it. I’ve never been good at this kind of thing. I think I missed the day at school when they taught all the girls how to flirt. Or maybe that’s something your mother teaches you. 

 

Grinding my teeth together, I jog out onto the field with my team and we quickly warm up. After a few throws and couple half-assed hits that show either how tired or already demoralized we are, Thom calls us in for a quick pep talk.

 

“Look, guys. I know this isn’t gonna be a walk in the park. But we can beat these guys, okay? Just like Katniss said. We beat Precinct 2. Let me repeat that. We. Beat. Precinct 2. All we gotta do is get under these guys’ skin and we’ll have an advantage, yeah?”

 

“I’d like to get under some of that skin,” Bristel whispers, but we all hear it and gawk at her. “What? December and January are  _ hot _ . May’s not too bad either. And lord almighty, have you guys seen July?”

 

“Yeah,” Annie snaps in disgust. “He’s a prancing peacock. Focus, Bristel.”

 

The music abruptly stops and Thom throws his hands up in the air in exasperation, grumbling something about what a great pep talk that turned out to be as the music changes and some classic rock guitars blare over the crowd. Caesar Flickerman walks onto the field, a remote transmission pack clipped to the back of his belt as he shouts into the microphone.

 

“It’s time, ladies and gentleman! The final round on field one. Have we got an exciting matchup for you today! Are you ready to meet the players?”

 

The crowd yells enthusiastically. Some goon in an official looking polo shirt with the KAPT radio station logo on the breast ushers us into a line near Caesar. It’s only when Caesar steps up in front of Thom that I realize what’s going on. I swallow heavily and hope they don’t ask us all to talk.

 

“Now, tell us your name, good sir,”

 

“Thom Buckley from District Twelve High School.”

 

“We’re glad to have you here, Thom. This crowd is pumped, wouldn’t you say?”

 

They prove Caesar right with loud stomping and whistling. Thom looks a little shell shocked and I feel a bit sorry for him.

 

“Let’s tell them why  _ this _ is  _ the _ game of the series to watch,” Caesar prompts, but Thom falters a little. Annie somehow knows where Caesar is trying to lead us, though.

 

“We’re undefeated today,” she says, and Caesar whirls to face her.

 

“Say that again, my dear, along with your name and what you teach.”

 

“Annie Cresta,” she says into the microphone. “I teach chemistry and general science. I’m one of our pitchers. Thom here teaches mathematics and plays first base. And our team is undefeated today.”

 

Her voice grows in strength until she gets to the last two words and she nearly shouts them.

 

“HA-HA!” Caesar crows as the crowd applauds us. “I LOVE IT! TWO UNDEFEATED TEAMS!”

 

Caesar takes Annie’s hand and motions for her to take a bow. Flustered, she does so, and as the noise finally calms, he moves to the next teacher in line. Slowly, he works his way towards me. I keep my eyes focused on him because every time I’ve glanced over at Peeta since Thom announced us, he’s been looking anywhere else. We’re avoiding one another right now, and I’m not sure what that means. Finally, Caesar gets to me.

 

“And you are?” he thrusts the microphone in my face and I startle a little, despite my preparations for this moment.

 

“Katniss Everdeen,” I say and Caesar waits expectantly for a beat.

 

“What subject do you teach?” he asks with a soothing smile and once more the microphone is at my mouth. I blush stupidly, but manage to answer the rest.

 

“I’ll be at second base today, and I teach biology and gen science.”

 

“Wait a moment, wait a moment,” Caesar says, gesturing negatively at my answer. He steps back a little and points up the line at Annie. “Chemistry,” points to Leevy, “physics,” and finally points to me, “and biology.”

 

“Yes,” I confirm, a little confused at where this is going until one of the firefighters whistles around his fingers and Caesar fans himself. “Science at District Twelve, everyone. The lessons must be explosive!”

 

“Caesar, please. Not in front of our students,” I say and wave at a few who cheer back at us. I bite my cheek until I taste blood, but if Caesar notices my shock at what I just said, he doesn’t show it. He’s skipping and gushing over what fun this game will be with such fiery players, and then moving on to Jackson, the last player in our lineup.

 

My eyes dart up and meet Peeta’s laughing blues. This time, he doesn’t look away. So I roll my eyes as if to say  _ Can you believe this joker?  _ and he winks at me.

 

“Now for our home team!” Caesar shouts and the music cues back up again. Jackson leads us back into our dugout, and Thom collapses on the bench next to me.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I had no idea they were going to do that.”

 

“Hey, it’s fine,” I say, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder. “You were great.”

 

“Thanks, Katniss,” he says and smiles warmly at me. I pull my hand back and turn my attention to Caesar, who’s just wrapping up his spiel about the firefighters who pose for the calendar and how they spend the next year as ambassadors for the city, spearheading any number of charitable efforts. He pauses and the music that’s been accompanying his announcement ramps back up.

 

“Here they are! At right field, you know him as Mr. January, Vincent Gloss!”

 

The first of their players jogs out onto the field and pumps a fist in the air for the cheering crowds before standing along the third base line. I barely recognize him with clothes on. Caesar works through the lineup from the outfield in, each of them seem to have some kind of signature move to greet the crowds. A short dance, like Ms. August, Johanna Mason, who steps onto the field and twerks to loud masculine shouts of approval. Kisses blown in abundance from Mr. July, Finnick Odair. By the time Caesar’s halfway done, any semblance of professionalism in our dugout has vanished.

 

“Hello, February,” Ms. Seeder says as a muscular firefighter, probably in his mid to late forties, who looks more like he should be a Marine, jogs out onto the field to wave at the crowd. Caesar announces him as Macarthur Boggs, playing pitcher. I pull my hat down as Caesar announces the final player.

 

“Playing catcher today, Mr. May...Peeta Mellark.”

 

Alright, I peek. His movement is hampered by the bulky catcher’s gear, and while the applause isn’t quite as loud for him as it was for July’s showmanship, when the noise peeters off, someone in the stands screams:

 

“I wanna have your babies!”

 

Annie makes a noise of undisguised disgust, but on the field, Caesar is playing it up. He points towards himself in confusion.

 

“Did you mean me? Of course not. Peeta, someone out there is interested in your time. Can you give this lovely young lady some hope?”

 

Peeta’s face turns red and I stand, grabbing the nearest bat to test its weight. I’m batting first anyways and having something to do keeps me distracted from tearing the crowd apart to find the groupie who screamed those distasteful words.

 

“Uh, sorry to disappoint Caesar,” Peeta says, snaring my attention. 

 

“Oh? Is there already a special someone in your life?” I stand with my back towards the shenanigans, gripping the bat, ears perked.

 

“Not exactly,” Peeta admits. “I haven’t managed to work up the courage to ask her out yet. Besides, I think the lady meant that shout for Finnick.”

 

I am tossed on a strange sea. The crowd laughs as I am certain Mr. July does something else obnoxiously risque to get the reaction of the crowd. Caesar wraps up and yells for us to  _ Play Ball!  _ My ears ring with Peeta’s words, though. I risk a look over my shoulder, and as the firefighters spread to take their spots on the field, I swear Peeta looks right at me for a second before donning his mask.

 

Heat floods my entire body. Dizzy with fever, I wander out onto the field. Take a few practice swings and demand that my body get a grip on itself. I’ve got a game to play. And he probably only said that as a bluff, to deflect the advances of the woman in the stands. The announcer’s booth plays a few brief notes of a song, an introductory blurb like they do for professional baseball players, but it’s too short for me to pinpoint the tune. After I take a few warm up swings, I step into the box. Keeping my eyes focused on their pitcher, I force myself to speak to Peeta.

 

“Fancy seeing you here, neighbor,” I say.

 

“Yeah,” he says, his voice strangely choked. Probably just the mask.

 

The pitch comes screaming at me, and I wait on this one. Umpire calls a strike as Peeta stands to return the ball.

 

“So you’re in the naked firefighters calendar,” I say as I reset, ignoring the fact that I already knew that.

 

“Are you slut-shaming me, Katniss?” he asks.

 

“STRIKE!” the ump shouts as the pitch flies right past me and I turn to glare down at him. 

 

“The calendars are all about promoting different non-profits and community involvement. Didn’t think you’d scoff at something like that,” Peeta teases me as the ball flies back into Mr. February’s glove. “Besides, I’m not actually naked in the calendar. Most of us aren’t.”

 

I snort as Peeta squats behind the plate. He’s close enough to naked in that picture to drive all sorts of sexual fantasies, and I should know. But I can’t call him out on it without admitting that I’ve already seen the calendar. Even behind the bars of his mask, I can see his smile, though. I simper at him and block him from my attention. I plan on knocking the seams off this pitch. That’ll show him.

 

Except the next one is too fast and outside. I wait. Umpire calls it a ball, and I huff in frustration, annoyed that I’m losing my momentum. February throws another ball, low and away, and beside me, Peeta chuckles.

 

“Boggs is baiting you. Next one is a strike. Right down the middle,” he says. I glare at him.

 

“I don’t need your help,” I say. “And I won’t fall for your mind games.”

 

Peeta shrugs and settles back in his stance, but now he’s got me psyched out. I swing hard at the next one, tipping it off my bat. It flies up over the fence into the crowd along the third baseline. Foul ball.

 

“Still alive,” Peeta says as he accepts a new ball from the umpire and throws it to his pitcher. He doesn’t give me any more hints, though, and when the next one comes flying over the plate, I swing as hard as I can.

 

It connects and I take off for first, but it isn’t enough as they get the ball there before me. Dejected I run back into the dugout and slouch on the bench, arms crossed and fuming at the whole situation. I’m really not sure why I’m so angry, but I hold onto the feeling and polish it to a high shine.

 

Peeta thinks he’s funny or even trying to be helpful -- well I’m not falling for it. Maybe I’ve been wrong about him and he’s just another preening peacock like the rest of these fire jocks.

 

Only, they prove me wrong. All of them. As the game progresses, the firefighters encourage not only each other, but us as well. They play introductory songs for all of us, several of them spot on in terms of personality, even though they had maybe thirty seconds of us talking to gauge us by. Their own introductory songs are a plethora of fire puns. Everything from Mr. April taking the plate to  _ Disco Inferno _ to Ms. August taking it to  _ Fire Starter _ . 

 

Peeta gives Leevy a high five when she hits one out into the left field corner and makes it back home before his team can get it in. Their second baseman laughs and jokes with Mitchell while they wait for the umps to discuss a controversial call. Instead of turning the game into a nasty competition, they make it fun. We share our triumphs and harmless trash talk when we make mistakes. It’s so different from the two other games we've played today, that I don’t know what to make of it. But it’s hard to hold onto my anger with so much laughter around me.

 

Between the first and second inning, Caesar announces that most of the schools will host their annual play in the upcoming weeks. He not only provides the dates and titles being performed for at least a dozen schools, including ours, but also informs the crowd that there are flyers on the tables at the booth selling calendars as well as a website with all the information.

 

“Did you do that?” I ask Thom, but he shakes his head.

 

“Wish I’d thought of it, though,” he admits. “Guess we’ll have to thank them later.”

 

The mood is catching, and before the second inning winds down, the game feels more like a simple one between friends than an actual competition. That’s only amplified when Haymitch Abernathy, our crusty sociology and psychology teacher stands in the bleachers and heckles Mr. October. Hard to admit it, but the resemblance between the two is striking, confirmed when Leevy mentions that they’re brothers.

 

It’s during the bottom of the second that Peeta is finally up to bat. He lobs one right over Annie’s head. It bounces in the gray zone between infield and outfield, but he’s not a very fast runner, so even though it takes us time to recover the ball, he only makes it to first. Annie’s getting tired, though, and walks the next batter. Peeta jogs up to second and tags the base before smiling at me.

 

“Are we still on for tonight?” he asks shyly.

 

“Unless you decide to give Miss Babymaker her wish instead,” I nod towards the stands and he flushes.

 

“Look, they don’t interest me,” he says, waving vaguely towards the crowd. “They’ve just seen a picture of me shirtless and think that means they know me or own a piece of me in a weird way. But they don’t.”

 

I nod solemnly but refuse to look at him. He’s too busy explaining to notice that Annie’s ready to pitch to the next batter. It connects, but Peeta doesn’t move. Someone on his team yells.

 

“STOP FLIRTING AND RUN, MELLARK!”

 

“Shit,” he mutters and jolts into action. But he’s too late. Bristel’s already lobbed the ball to Jackson at third, and before Peeta’s halfway to the next base, the ball soars back over his head into my glove. Double play. End of the inning.

 

The game continues with the score pretty even, and spirits high on both sides. Caesar keeps the crowd ramped up, and at one point, they manage to start a wave and keep it going for a few rounds. Thom’s looking less pale and more into it, once more coaching us through strategies, but with a lighthearted voice.

 

“Alright, folks,” Caesar yells out once the top of the fourth is in the books, the score sitting at 5 to 4 with us leading. “You’ve heard of the seventh inning stretch, well this is the fourth inning stretch! On your feet!”

 

A few piano notes blast over the speakers as the firefighters split, half of them on each of the baselines in front of the bleachers. Bristel hollers and whoops as I recognize the song. Annie rolls her eyes, but we crowd the exit of our dugout for an unobstructed view. This is obviously something they’ve coordinated, as the firefighters launch into a synchronized dance to  _ Great Balls of Fire. _

 

Part way through the dance, July waves at Annie to join him. She shakes her head firmly, her arms crossed. He pouts, and when that doesn’t work, asks if she doesn’t have the guts.

 

“Oh that’s it,” she says and stomps out towards him.

 

“Don’t give in to him!” Jackson shouts, a shocking burst of laughter on her lips as Annie starts dancing with the arrogant firefighter. And puts him to shame. Mr. July, surprisingly, doesn’t seem the least bit disappointed. Beside him, Mr. September motions for the rest of us to join them.

 

“Come on,” Leevy says, grabbing my hand and tugging.

 

“No,” I protest, digging my heels in, but the rest of my teammates have a different idea and I am carried onto the field with the tide. I stumble a little and a pair of strong hands catch me. For a second, as I look up into Peeta’s smiling blue eyes, the rest of the world falls away. Then he tugs on my hands and spins me around, drawing a laugh from me. The choreographed dance dissolves as we all pair off and wing it. Even Thom’s side-bumping hips with Ms. August in front of their dugout. 

 

It might be sloppy and ridiculous, peppered with horrid robot man and really bad two steps, but the crowd is eating it up. At one point, I glance back in the stands and my smile widens at the sight of several of my students dancing their hearts out, joyful smiles on their faces.

 

When the music finally ends, the applause and cheers are deafening, and Caesar gushes over the loudspeaker. Peeta backs away from me with a smile on his face, but the look in his eyes is so intense, I can barely breathe until September grabs his shirt collar and drags him back towards the dugout.

 

There’s only an inning and a half left, and I am suddenly eager for it to be over. 

 

Annie fires in two outs right out of the gate, including one against Mr. July. Oddly enough, he lingers at home plate for a second, a faint smile on his face that I doubt Annie even notices since she’s turned her back to the plate to gather her thoughts for the next hitter.

 

I shift nervously as Peeta heads towards the plate. July claps him on the shoulder and says something. Then a burst of music screams over the speakers. It’s not the song they’ve been playing to introduce Peeta’s turn at bat, though.

 

_ I’ve got it bad, bad, bad. _ _  
_ _ I’m hot for teacher! _

 

Peeta freezes and turns back to face Finnick, who seems to be gesturing to defend his innocence in the music change. His grin would suggest otherwise, though. I feel my neck and cheeks heat, eyeing each of my teammates and wondering which of them Peeta’s team seems to think he’s got a crush on since he laid eyes on them all for the first time maybe an hour ago. I flex my hand in my glove as Peeta shakes his head at his teammate and steps into the box. But his gaze finds me again and butterflies create chaos in my middle.

 

When he swings on the second pitch, the  _ clank _ echoes through the field as the ball soars off towards right field. Cecilia dives for it, making a spectacular catch and bringing the inning to a close. And even though it brings us one step closer towards winning, I feel a slight twinge of disappointment. I most likely won’t be able to distract him again during the game.

 

Our bats are on fire throughout the top of the fifth, though, and I get a surprising turn at bat with two outs and the score at seven to four. They’ve swapped February out for a different pitcher, but I can’t really blame them since by this time, we’ve played fourteen innings. Peeta doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. I’ve got a game to focus on, despite the lingering warmth of his hands holding mine or the weird nausea I’ve felt every time I think of the mystery girl he mentioned at the start of the game or the playful teasing of his teammates.

 

I swing at the first pitch without thinking, but as soon as it’s airborne, Peeta stands, flipping his mask off his face.

 

“Nice hit,” he says, and I stand there dumbly staring at him. “Go. Run, Katniss!”

 

I take off as my teammates applaud and whoop. I’m expecting it to come back to earth into the waiting glove of their left fielder, but instead, it just slips over the fence and the stands erupt. As I jog around the bases in a daze, the firefighters offer high fives and congrats. How do you respond to an opponent that doesn’t seem to mind losing? I don’t know, so I smack their raised palms and smile my thanks for their words.

 

After that, though, the new pitcher strikes out Ms. Cecilia and the inning turns over.

 

“Alright,” Thom says as we prep to take the field. “All we need to do is hold them to fewer than four runs. Annie?”

 

“I can last, I think.”

 

“You let me know if you need to rotate out, okay?”

 

She nods, and we run to our positions to the stomping and cheering of an energized crowd. Mr. September makes it to first on a low curve, then Mr. June hits one straight for me and I tag out the leading runner. When Ms. August steps up to the plate, a hard glint in her eyes, Annie falters. It’s enough to get the ball past the infield on a spectacular hit. 

 

“Yeah!” she shouts as she runs and tags first. Then she gets in Thom’s face. “That’s what I’m talking about.” Thom blushes as she says something to him, popping her gum before returning her attention to the game. 

 

Mr. October, Haymitch’s brother, brings two runs in, but then we tag Mr. January out at first. With only one out between us and victory, Thom rushes up to the mound to speak quietly to Annie. I can’t hear the words, but I can see Annie shaking her head.

 

“Come on, Rocket!” Mr. July shouts from their dugout. “Three more strikes; you got this!”

 

Annie stares at him with narrowed eyes, but her lips twitch in what appears to be a restrained smile. July’s faith in her seems to spark something, though, because she nearly knocks Seeder off her feet with the next pitch. Two throws and two whiffs of the bat through the air later and it’s all over.

 

Thom throws his hat in the air and the celebrations fly by in a blur. I remember lining up and shaking hands with the line of firefighters. I remember July grinning at me suggestively. And September smiling and nodding, signing something that I don't quite catch to June who looks to be his brother, maybe even his twin. June laughing and congratulating me on a great hit. And then there’s Peeta, holding my hand a second longer than the others did as I can’t seem to look away from him or move on.

 

“Your winners! The District Twelve High School teachers!” Caesar screams and Peeta drops my hand as I move towards my huddled team and throw my arms around them, joining them in our quiet victory celebration. Even if the schools don’t win the series overall, at least we did everything that we could to help.

 

The crowd disbands quickly as we gather our gear together. Thom races off ahead of us to hand in our last card, an umpire’s signature on it to prove our win. The rest of us meander towards the amphitheater as a team. The others recount their favorite parts of the day in joyful tones, and I smile, surreptitiously searching the flowing crowd for a familiar face. 

 

Once again, the amphitheater is packed and noisy. Caesar glides up on stage to monstrous applause. The cops have taken back up their chant. Annie threads her arm through mine and smiles nervously at me. I return it and we both focus on the stage.

 

“Are you ready, Panem?” he shouts and shudders with glee at the loud response he gets. “Let me tell you, this has been an exciting day. Such a close competition. But I won’t waste your time. I know what you want!”

 

The crowd screams as Caesar puts his hands out, wriggling his fingers and throwing his head back in laughter as the noise somehow gets louder.

 

“Alright! In fourth place, with a fantastic comeback in the final round -- three wins bringing their total to seven! I give you, the city workers!”

 

There’s a decent amount of applause as Mayor Paylor steps up to the stage to smile and shake hands and receive one of those massive, tacky fake checks. She poses for a few quick pictures with Caesar and a few other officials in suits and then quickly clears the stage.

 

“In third place,” Caesar continues, “with two wins in round three, bringing their total to nine...Panem Police Department!”

 

The applause is meek compared to this morning and the cops barely manage their chant as the Chief of Police, a tall and striking woman with a hard set chin and short hair, strides onto the stage to accept their prop check. She barely smiles for the cameras but shakes Caesar’s hand hard enough to leave him grimacing.

 

“Wow. I suggest not speeding on your way home this afternoon, folks,” Caesar jokes to scattered laughter. “And now, what you’ve all been waiting for. The grand prize. We’ve had an unexpected development here today. A tie.”

 

“A tie?” Annie whispers and we all look at each other with wide eyes as we realize that there are only two groups left, and one of them is the school districts. Murmurs ripple through the crowd as the news sinks in.

 

“That’s right!” Caesar booms. “With ten wins each, Panem Fire Department and Panem School Districts! Let’s get the chief and the superintendent up here, shall we?”

 

His final words are nearly drowned out beneath the noise. When the ruckus finally dies out, Caesar announces that the money reserved for first and second places will be split evenly between the two groups, or each of us will be given 35% of the proceeds. Thom smiles and nods as several people congratulate them. He’s scribbling numbers on a piece of paper, and finally looks up at us while the masses begin their departure from the park. 

 

“Thank you all for doing this. I hope you had as much fun as I did.” Bristel interrupts with a quick whoop and Thom’s grin widens. “Based on the amount this event pulled in last year, we should have enough for everything on our wish list. So go home, rest up, I’ll see you all on Monday.”

 

I make my way towards the parking lot, tossing my gear in my trunk before plopping down in the driver seat. The place is a nut house, so I sit and wait for the traffic to die out. The adrenaline of the competition drains from me and I suddenly feel so bone deep weary that all I want to do is curl up in bed and sleep. But I have a date.

 

Well, not a date per se. I don’t think. And then I’m thinking about all the times today I caught him looking at me with something in his eyes or smile that I couldn’t place. The nameless girl he’s trying to find the courage to ask out. I hate her already. Or the faceless ho who claims she wants his babies but couldn’t possibly know the look of concentration on his face while he draws, like he’s got thousands of worlds locked away in his mind, just begging to be released onto paper. Or that he never takes sugar in his tea. And always double knots his shoelaces. Or that he bakes to keep his hands and mind busy because it’s soothing to him, in spite of or maybe perhaps because of the connections to his dead parents. She might know that his left cheek dimples when he smiles deeply, but not the way his shoulders shake first before he’ll let an audible laugh past his lips.

 

A car horn honks, yanking me from my reverie. Looking around, I see that the traffic has thinned considerably, so I crank my engine and head home, satisfied that whoever those faces and names in the crowd are, they won’t be stretched out on Peeta’s couch in less than an hour, sharing a meal and a drink and probably a few laughs with him.

 

************

 

_ Up next…  _ **_Basorexia_ ** _ \- an overwhelming desire to kiss _

 

************

 

Gloss (January) -  _ Come On Baby, Light My Fire  _ by The Doors

Boggs (February) -  _ Fight Fire with Fire _ by Metallica

Dalton (March) -  _ Midnight Fire _ by Steve Wariner

Chaff (April) -  _ Disco Inferno _ by The Trammps

Peeta (May) -  _ Sex On Fire _ by Kings of Leon & _ Hot for Teacher _ by Van Halen

Castor (June) -  _ Hot Stuff  _ by Donna Summers

Finnick (July) -  _ Hot Blooded  _ by Foreigner 

Johanna (August) -  _ Fire Starter _ by Demi Lovato

Pollux (September) -  _ Sleep Now in the Fire  _ by Rage Against the Machine

Lucas Abernathy (October) -  _ The Heat Is On _ by Glenn Frey

Daniel Odair (November) -  _ Smoke On the Water _ by Deep Purple

Thresh (December) -  _ Fire  _ by Jimmy Hendrix


	7. Basorexia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basorexia - an overwhelming urge to kiss

**Basorexia** \- an overwhelming urge to kiss

 

* * *

 

I’m not sure who’s supposed to knock on whose door. We didn’t really set any details for our time together after the game, and by the time I’ve showered and thrown on something comfy -- because I refuse to make a huge deal out of this only to discover that I’m an idiot -- it’s well past dinner time. My stomach growls and finally, I yield, propping my door open and marching over to Peeta’s door, knocking firmly. Rowdy barks in Mags’ apartment next door as I wait.

 

No answer. I spin around and return to my own apartment, stand in my kitchen fingering my stack of takeout menus and flip through them. There’s a few places I haven’t tried yet and this  _ Soups Sae Stew _ place sounds intriguing. I impatiently tap my fingers on the glossy sheet and debate my next move. I don’t have Peeta’s number, which was never really an issue before, but now I’m thinking it was a huge oversight on one of our parts.

 

“Screw it,” I mutter and grab a scrap piece of paper. I scribble my number and a quick note on it, tear off a piece of tape and return to his door. Rowdy starts barking before I even knock this time, and Peeta’s door flies open.

 

“Hey,” he says with a smile, a round container balanced in one hand. He’s dressed much like I am, sweatpants and a t-shirt, socks and no shoes, his hair still wet. I nearly smack myself on the forehead. He was in the shower. That’s why he didn’t answer.

 

Aaaaand now I’m picturing him naked and dripping with suds instead of returning his greeting.

 

“Hey.” I sound out of breath and scowl at my own stupidity. 

 

“I hope you weren’t waiting too long. Had to stay at the park and help clean up,” he explains and I finally manage to get my thoughts back together. I feel guilty, though, that my team basically booked it out of there while his apparently helped tear down.

 

“No, it’s fine,” I say as we continue standing there. “I was thinking of this soup place instead of pizza.”

 

“That sounds really good,” he says with a broad smile, and I’m finally able to get my feet moving. I lead him back into my apartment, and the tension that was thickening in the air dissipates. I show him the menu as he slides the container onto the counter. He peruses his options and I finger the lip of the container’s lid, manage to lift it just a little before Peeta swats my hand away. “Uh-uh. That’s a surprise.”

 

I scowl at him and he laughs.

 

“Don’t you know me well enough by now not to come between me and baked goods?” I ask. He slides the container further away from me, so he’s blocking my access to it with his body.

 

“I do know that. Which is why it’s fun. See how far you’ll go to get the goods.”

 

“Fine,” I say and snag the menu from his hands. “I’m ordering and you’re not complaining. Hope you like lima beans.”

 

“That’s just torture,” he says and reaches for the menu, but I yank my arm back at the last second, pulling it out of his reach. The movement brings us basically chest to chest, with his mouth close enough to mine that I can feel his exhales on my lips. Every last one of my nerves stands at attention.

 

I wonder what he’d do if I kissed him right now?

 

Peeta’s eyes narrow as he tries to reach around my block, but I twist and duck beneath his arm, scampering across the kitchen.

 

“What’s for dessert?” I ask, not intending for my voice to sound that breathy, and a little terrified of what I’m doing, so blatantly flirting with him. 

 

“Apple pie,” he says, and I’m a little disappointed that he gave in so easily. 

 

I toss the menu at him and he continues reading it while I dial the number. Once we’ve placed our order, I flop onto the couch and Peeta settles on the opposite arm. I’ve taken up so much of the space that my toes are tucked under his thigh. He stretches his arm across the back cushion and releases a hefty sigh as he rests his head on his arm with his eyes closed and a content smile playing with his mouth. We sit there, immobile and comfortably silent for several minutes.

 

“Gonna sleep like a log tonight,” he says eventually, and he sounds relieved. Like it isn’t a normal occurrence. I bite my thumb nail and stare at him, thinking of the nightmares I sometimes have about my dad, and wondering if Peeta deals with something similar. Given how he lost his parents, it wouldn’t surprise me. It feels too intimate to ask about that, though, so I search for something else.

 

“Whose idea was it to announce all the school plays?” I ask quietly and he opens one eye to look at me. He shrugs in answer.

 

“Dunno. It’ll help, though, right? We work pretty closely with Caesar and his show throughout the year. He said he’d be announcing the dates over the next couple days too, getting the word out more.”

 

“Yeah, it’ll help,” I say and Peeta closes his eyes again, his smile fully formed now.

 

“Good to hear. Wake me when the food is here, yeah?”

 

“No,” I say and smack him on the face with the nearest throw pillow.

 

“Ah!” he shouts and sits up, a look of astonishment on his face. “Unsportsmanlike conduct, Everdeen.”

 

“I play to win,” I say with a shrug.

 

“Uh-huh,” he says, grasping one of my feet and lifting it onto his lap. “So you play dirty? Like distracting other players?”

 

“You did that yourself,” I say as I try to retrieve my foot, but his grip on it is strong. 

 

“Well, to be fair, it wasn’t gonna take much for you to distract me,” he says. I manage to wrench my foot free, my breath catching in my throat at his words and what they could mean.

 

“I’m not ticklish on my feet,” I say instead of asking.

 

“But you’re ticklish somewhere else?” he asks, a mischievous grin widening over his lips as he grabs my other foot and slowly pulls me down the couch towards him.

 

“No!” I insist and wriggle free of his grasp. He lets me go and chuckles, but settles back on the couch.

 

“I’ll find out eventually,” he says, his head resting on the cushions so he’s looking at me.

 

_ Please do, _ I think, and bite the inside of my cheek at the wayward thought.

 

“Shouldn’t you be focusing on the girl you mentioned?” I ask instead.

 

“What girl?” he asks. I stare at him, waiting for him to put the pieces together. I can see it dawning in his eyes. In the blush spreading over his cheeks. “Oh.”

 

“You should ask her,” I say, dreading his response but also waiting for it eagerly. It’s so much easier to hate someone when you have a face and a name to go with the rage. And maybe there’s a small part of me that hopes that once he confirms it, I’ll finally be able to let go of Mr. May and just be Peeta’s friend and neighbor. He licks his lips and seems to be considering his words.

 

“I don’t know, Katniss. It’s probably stupid of me to even consider it,” he says, and I scowl at him.

 

“Why?”

 

“Well she’s pretty incredible, and there’s any number of guys interested in her,” Peeta says.

 

“So?”

 

“So I doubt that I’d be able to stand up to that kind of competition,” he explains with a soft smile. A smile of acceptance. His easy dismissal of himself doesn’t sit well with me. I shift on the couch so that I’m closer to him.

 

“And I doubt that you’d have much competition at all,” I whisper, blushing at the revealing words leaving my lips.

 

He tilts his head off the back cushions and looks at me in confusion. I’m frantically thinking of something to say to alleviate this burning in my chest as he remains silent. His eyes dip to look at my lips. Just for a second, then back up at my eyes.

 

_ What a stupid thing to say, Katniss _ , I berate myself as Peeta takes a deep breath, and I’ve just about got myself convinced he’s going to reject me and I’ve read this moment all wrong when my phone rings.

 

We both jump back and I fiddle with my braid before snatching my phone off the coffee table and answering. I nearly scream at the poor delivery guy for his horrendous timing, but when I hang up, Peeta’s smiling shyly at me and holding out a few bills to cover his share of the food. I silently take the money and grab my wallet before fleeing the apartment.

 

When I return with the food, Peeta’s gotten out spoons and napkins. He’s also stacked a few blankets on my counter.

 

“Have you ever been up to the roof?” he asks. I shake my head, and he smiles. “Wanna have a picnic up there?”

 

“Sure,” I say, setting the bag with the stew in it next to everything on the counter and digging in my fridge to produce a bottle of wine. I think I need alcohol to forget how monumentally dumb I’ve been.

 

“Oh, good idea,” Peeta says and pulls a couple glasses from my cabinet. We gather everything in our arms and hurry up the two flights of stairs and out onto the roof.

 

My breath catches as I look out over the city. We’re not up that high, but most of the buildings in this neighborhood are short enough that we at least have a decent view of the downtown skyline. 

 

“I didn’t even know you could come up here,” I admit as Peeta spreads out one of the blankets and tosses a few cushions on top for us to sit on. “How did you know?”

 

“Firefighter,” he says and grins. “I have a hard time turning it off. Looking at structures and finding their weak points. Best places to enter. How a fire would spread. Where the building collapse would start.”

 

“So you scoped out the building you live in?” I ask.

 

“Well, yeah,” he says, as though this is something everyone should do. But his smile is so sweet and shy, his eyes melancholy in contrast, and it makes sense. All the little times he asked about nitty gritty details in relation to my safety. Fire extinguisher under the sink. Checking the batteries on my smoke detectors even though he knows firsthand that they work. Constantly trying to protect and prevent.

 

It makes me want to cry.

 

Instead, I distract myself by pulling the food from the bag and distributing both it and the spoons. Peeta pours the wine and studiously avoids my gaze until he hands me a cup, lifting his own as though about to make a toast.

 

“Congrats on the win today,” he says with a smile. This one is genuine and catching. I smile, too, as overwhelming warmth rushes through me.

 

“Well, it was obvious our opponent was completely in the zone,” I tease him and the tips of his ears turn red as we drink. “Must be so hard having women throw themselves at your feet like that.”

 

“I told you they don’t interest me,” Peeta murmurs.

 

“You gonna say you haven’t noticed any of them?”

 

“Noticed them, yes. It’s flattering to some degree, but like I said, they don’t really know me.”

 

“So then what does it take to hold your interest?” I ask before my brain can catch up with my mouth. “Forget I asked.”

 

“Since you’re being so nosy,” he says with a grin. “What about you? Tall dark and brooding? Or playfully arrogant cop?”

 

I sputter and Peeta laughs as I glare at him.

 

“How’d you even notice that?” I ask, flustered.

 

“I notice everything about you, Katniss,” he whispers, but then he’s shoveling stew in his mouth and I’m wondering if I imagined the whole thing. He confuses me more with each passing second. “So what’s that story?”

 

“What story?” I ask as I scowl down at my steaming hot lamb stew. I blow on my first bite and then close my eyes as the savory flavor hits my palate. This might be my new favorite take-out place.

 

“The red-haired cop, and the best friend deliberately kissing you in public,” Peeta prompts.

 

“Ugh. Darius is an ex-boyfriend. From college,” I say after I swallow, but he looks at me expectantly, waiting for further details as he purses his lips around his own stew filled spoon and lifts one eyebrow at me.

 

With a sigh, I tell Peeta all about Darius, including my total lack of response to him today. How blind-sided I felt when Gale kissed me. He listens and somehow senses when I’m getting uncomfortable because he shifts the topic to something else. Then he’s asking me about Rue and a few of my students that I’ve talked about before, and as the food and wine disappear, I find myself more relaxed.

 

As the night wears on and the air cools, my comfortable clothes cannot keep the chill out, and I shiver. Peeta notices and grabs the second blanket, wrapping it around me. But his hands as they brush over my neck are ice cold, so I open the blanket back up and invite him in. We shuffle around for a few minutes until we’re both cocooned in the soft fabric, heads resting on the cushions, his arms wrapped around me for added warmth as we stare up at the light obscured stars overhead. Unable to see the city anymore, the sudden sounds of the nightlife feel disembodied and out of place.

 

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I shift to pull it out, accidentally moving the blanket off of us a little and Peeta gasps in outraged protest. I stick my tongue out at him then scowl at my mother’s name on the screen. Hitting Ignore, I toss the phone aside with a loud groan.

 

“Who was that? And how can I avoid you scowling like that at me?” he asks with a chuckle.

 

“My mother,” I complain. “She wants me to go home for Thanksgiving and she wants an answer now. But I don’t want to go.”

 

The wine must be making my tongue loose because I tell Peeta all about my issues with my mom. His brow wrinkles and partway through my explanation, I stop, thinking of how he lost his mother and that he probably doesn’t understand my reluctance to go visit my own very alive mother.

 

“You think I’m selfish,” I whisper and Peeta shakes his head.

 

“No, I think that we all respond differently to loss and none of it’s wrong. You know, unless you go on a killing spree or something like that.”

 

I snort and rest my cheek on his chest, drowning out the disconcerting noises of the city and my own thoughts about my mother with the beat of his heart. Steady and strong.

 

“Sometimes we just don’t know how to deal with it, so we do things that maybe hurt others. Even if we don’t want or mean to,” he whispers. 

 

I think about how I dealt with my Dad dying, working myself to the bone and looking after Prim. How I never truly mourned him until years had gone by, keeping it all locked away and buried under responsibilities. Shut everyone out.

 

“You’re saying I should forgive her?” I ask.

 

“That’s up to you,” he says. “But what if you invited her here instead? Get both of you away from the town and the memories and maybe give you at least a fighting chance at reconciliation.”

 

Huh. I mull over his words and barely notice it when his hands start sketching random patterns on my back. My body notices if my brain doesn’t, and by the time my brain catches up, I’m flushed and overheated. Peeta’s practically a furnace beside me and I turn my head to look up at him.

 

“That’s not a bad idea,” I say. “How are you so good at this?”

 

“Well if I knew that, then I’d have fixed my own family issues years ago,” he says with a smile. It seems weak, though. Like he’s holding something in reserves. And the wine must have really gone to my head because I’m staring at his lips and wondering if they’re soft and pliant or if his kisses would be unyielding. Would I enjoy it? Kissing Darius was alright. I enjoyed it most of the time. But something in my gut tells me kissing Peeta will be completely different, and my brain is just filled with enough wine for me to seriously consider finding out. Right here on the roof.

 

“Katniss,” he whispers as my hands clench, grasping onto bunches of the cozy fabric of his shirt. 

 

I pull myself further up his body, so I can look him straight in the eyes. His fingers skip up and down my arm, and unlike at the start of the game today, Peeta’s gaze is unwavering, if a little scared. The caresses stop as he lifts a hand to brush back a lock of my hair. I close my eyes as the backs of his fingers caress my skin, reveling in the softness of the touch. When I look back down at him again, his hand delving carefully into my hair, eyes darkened, his lips part and before he can say anything to make me doubt or overthink the whole thing, I lower my head to his.

 

As soon as our lips touch, his arm tightens around me. His thumb in my hair caresses over my scalp as I melt into the warmth of him. Lighter than air and more soothing than hot chocolate on a cold winter’s day. In a flash, my world upends then rights itself to the movements of our lips. 

 

I lift my head to catch my breath, astonished that such a simple kiss could steal it away. But the ragged breath Peeta takes echoes my own.

 

“Katniss, would you want to go out with me sometime?”

 

I blink and lift my gaze to his eyes. Calm pools of blue reflecting starlight and worry. 

 

Worry?

 

And then bells go off in my head and the sudden warmth fills me again. Spreads out to the tips of my fingers. Down between my toes. Me. He’d been talking about me to Caesar.

 

“That girl you’ve been meaning to ask out,” I prompt, just to be certain. Peeta shakes his head and laughs mirthlessly.

 

“Guess I did a better job of hiding it than I thought,” he says. “Figured the song today, at the very least, gave me away.”

 

“Song?” I ask, tilting my head in confusion.

 

“ _ Hot for Teacher _ ,” he explains and then we’re both grinning stupidly. “They played that because of you. Because I couldn’t keep my eyes or my mind off you.”

 

“So you’re asking me on a date?” The stupid grin widens as the certainty settles warm and cozy in my middle. 

 

“If you’ll allow it,” he whispers. I shrug, but we’re both still smiling.

 

“I’ll allow it,” I say.

 

“Then get back down here,” he murmurs and this time, he lifts his head to meet mine. An ache inside of me unfurls as we both relax into the kiss, limbs shifting restlessly. The glowing crackle of embers, not enough to rage out of control, but enough to warm and comfort, to draw you in close and make you hunger for more.

 

Somewhere out in the city, sirens bleep then kick on fully. Scream down a nearby street. We don’t let them interrupt though. Who knew just kissing could be such a consuming, full body experience? The discovery is astonishing and gratifying and not nearly enough to satisfy me.

 

When we come up for air, my lips are tingling, my entire body relaxed. I roll over, pulling him on top of me so that his heat shields me from the world. Tug on his hair to get his mouth to return to mine.

 

I must fall asleep at some point. I remember that we did eventually stop kissing. Our ears and noses bitten with cold, we retreated fully under the blanket and spoke quietly or not at all. But I wake, jostled about and shivering with sudden cold. Strong arms heft me, and even half asleep, I can tell that I am off the ground. Bouncing slightly as Peeta carries me back inside, I groan and nestle closer into his chest. Sigh when he lowers me onto a welcoming mattress and tugs the covers up over me. I reach out desperately for his hand and cling to it, not wanting this night to end just yet.

 

“Stay, Peeta,” I murmur. “Stay the night with me.”

 

“I have to go get our things off the roof,” he whispers, brushing a soft kiss over my forehead.

 

“But then you’ll stay?”

 

“Then I’ll stay,” he promises. I let go of his hand and almost immediately sink into sleep, but when he climbs into the bed, the movement and shift wakes me enough to insert myself into his embrace. He brushes my hair back off my forehead and is still doing that when I fall back asleep.


	8. Coitus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do I really need to give ya a definition for this one? Didn't think so. ;-)

When I open my eyes, it is to the comfort of human closeness. My room is bathed in a rosy morning glow, a gentle breeze wafting over my cheek, and feet tangled with my mine. I blink and stare at the mass taking up half my bed. He’s got one arm thrown over his head, his hair a savage mess. And he’s already awake, blue eyes clear and focused on me.

 

“Good morning,” he says, voice hoarse with the last dregs of sleep.

 

“Morning,” I answer.

 

“Did you sleep alright?”

 

“Yeah, I did.”

 

I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever shared a bed with anyone. Maybe with Prim, when we were younger and she’d had a nightmare. Sometimes she would crawl into bed with me, if our mother had been having a bad week, sunk so far in grief that she couldn’t even be roused to hold her frightened child. On those nights, I was the comforter, shoving aside my own disturbing dreams to make sure she was taken care of.

 

But as Peeta’s slow smile stretches over his lips and his fingers toy absently with his hair, I hold on to the feeling of peace somehow connected to his company.   
  


“I hope you don’t mind,” he says waving towards my open window, the source of the breeze. “I have a bit of a hard time sleeping unless it’s open.”

 

“No, it’s fine,” I tell him. Actually, it’s nice, and something I’d never dare to do on my own, but his presence makes it seem like not a huge deal.

 

Then I am faced with an awkward dilemma. Hot guy in my bed and I have a full bladder. Telling myself it’s perfectly normal to have to pee in the mornings, I slip from the bed and lock myself in the bathroom. I am clueless how to handle the morning after. I didn’t even spend the night with Darius when we were together. 

 

Sex, sure. Cuddling afterward? No. It wasn’t for a lack of effort on his part, but every time he tried to hold me close, my heart would pound in my chest, my entire body going cold and clammy. So I’d make up excuses, had dozens in reserve about early morning shifts or a nonexistent paper I had yet to finish. If Darius had known anything about me, he would’ve been able to call me out on my shit. But I’m not sure he ever really knew  _ me. _ My roommate used to say that I was allergic to affection. I wonder what she’d think about Peeta.

 

When I’m done in the bathroom, I keep my gaze down and scramble back into the bed. Peeta moves to make room for me, and as I settle, he twines our fingers together. Pulls my hand up to his mouth and brushes light kisses over my knuckles. I feel the tension melting from me as his eyes meet mine. Then I laugh nervously. This is ridiculous. We spent at least half an hour attached at the mouth last night.

 

“What?” Peeta asks, his brows lowering a little.

 

“Nothing,” I tell him.

 

“Okay,” he says, but doesn’t press me to explain. “What are your plans for today?”

 

“Grading papers, watching a movie with my sister,” I tell him. “What about you?”

 

“All I’ve got today is laundry,” he says. I nod and we fall into silence. Maybe it was all that kissing last night, making me feel awkward and clueless. I search his eyes for a shred of regret. Search myself for a similar feeling, a telltale flutter of nausea. Or a need for him to leave, to give me space. But I don’t want him to go just yet.

 

“Do you wanna stay for breakfast?” I ask.

 

“Yeah, I’d love to. Did you have something in mind?”

 

“Pancakes,” I suggest.

 

“Mmmm,” he agrees and pulls me closer to him. “Cinnamon apple topped pancakes?”

 

“How seasonal,” I murmur as Peeta shifts to his side, to hover over me. He’s smiling when he kisses me.

 

“I don’t have any apples,” I say when he finally lifts his head away from mine.

 

“I do,” he says. “If you can get everything else together, I’ll go get the stuff for the apple topping.”

 

“Okay,” I say and gasp as Peeta shoots up out of the bed and hurries out to his place, calling over his shoulder that he’ll be right back.

 

We’re old hats at this by now and easily move around one another as we work in my small kitchen. At one point, while I’m flipping pancakes, he steps up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. I tilt my head so he can kiss my neck and try not to be too obvious about the delicious way it makes me shiver.

 

“Don’t burn anything,” he teases and I elbow him lightly, satisfied with the grunt he puffs over my shoulder.

 

“What’s the matter? Worried about your reputation?”

 

“Kind of. I’d never live it down if the guys got called here for a kitchen fire.”

 

I hum and flip the pancakes as he releases me to stir the apples cooking on the stove. Everything smells divine and my mouth is already watering.

 

As we sit down at the table to eat, I get a little distracted by his lashes. Long golden feathers that catch the light and nearly shine. I wonder how he blinks without tangling them up. He catches me staring and I blush, but he smiles and slides a pancake onto my plate.

 

We’re old hats at this, too, and if I was expecting all that kissing to make things awkward this morning, I was completely mistaken. I rest my feet on Peeta’s leg and he rubs my arches as though it’s the most natural thing in the world for us to be doing. At my prompting, he tells me a little more about the calendar guys and lady, and before long, we’re both laughing and I might be snorting over a story of the time they had a carwash and Daniel (Mr. November), who is apparently Finnick’s (Mr. July’s) brother, slipped on a sponge while he was trying to flirt and took out half the Panem U cheerleading squad, which had all shown up to get their cars washed.

 

“So did he get her number or not?” I ask around my giggles.

 

“Once her nose stopped bleeding, yes.”

 

“Oh my god, no.”

 

“Yep,” he says as he stands and gathers our plates. “They’ve been dating for about three weeks now.”

 

“There’s a story for the kids,” I snort and open the dishwasher as Peeta rinses and loads. When he’s finished with that, he leans back against the counter, a kitchen towel draped over his shoulder and a happy smile on his face.

 

“Tension, humor, a daring rescue--”

 

“Rescue?”

 

“Okay, so a couple of us are EMTs as well and the opportunity was just too ripe to let pass,” he stresses in a laughing tone.

 

“You didn’t.”

 

“We got him on a stretcher in one of those neck braces and asked him how many fingers he saw,” Peeta holds up three fingers as a visual aid and I shake my head.

 

“What’d he say?”

 

“No fingers. I see no fingers, but I see three assholes who’re gonna pay for this later.”

 

“You’re terrible,” I say, trying to stifle my laughter. I can’t, though, and it makes the rebuke completely ineffective.

 

“It’s what brothers do,” he says with a quick shrug, but the weight of the nonchalant words doesn’t escape me. My laughter evaporates as I wonder, not for the first time, what happened to his biological brothers. Peeta rarely ever mentions them, and I wonder if they’re estranged and the firefighters are now his real brothers.

 

I feel terrible as my thoughts seem to build the awkwardness out of nothing and Peeta coughs. Grasping to get back to where we were a moment ago, I suggest we return to bed or sit on the couch to read and draw.

 

“My movie date with Prim isn’t until this afternoon.”

 

“What about those papers you need to grade?”

 

“They won’t take long. They’re just pop quizzes,” I try to deflect.

 

“Can I help? Are they just multiple choice and true-false?”

 

“You don’t have to do that,” I protest, but Peeta’s having none of it, and within minutes, we’re settled on my bed. Peeta checks the one-right-answer questions against my answer key then hands them to me to grade the essay. It’s strangely comforting working together like this.

 

“You’re laundry’s being neglected,” I say as I tap the graded quizzes on my knee to get the edges flush before returning them to my bag.

 

“It can wait another couple hours. Besides, I’d rather spend as much of my day with you as I possibly can.”

 

“Okay,” I say and stretch out on my bed as Peeta does the same. “Are we just going to spend a lazy day in bed?”

 

“I’d say we’ve both earned it after yesterday,” his hand glides over my hip and my side.

 

“Sounds great, but should we  _ do _ something?” I’m thinking of the date we agreed to last night and wondering what he’d want to do for that. After grading papers and staring at Rue’s name with a rumpled Peeta in my bed, I’m not sure I want to go out anywhere my students might see us together. Whatever is happening between Peeta and I right now, it’s no one’s business but our own.

 

“Hmmm,” he hums thoughtfully. “We should start with this.” Then I scream as his fingers hone in on the spot just beneath my ribs, tickling mercilessly. I thrash in the bed, tangling us both in the sheets. When tears of laughter start streaming down my face, Peeta lets me go and settles back on the pillows, a smug smile on his face.

 

“Told you I’d find out,” he says as I catch my breath. Alright, if he wants to play dirty.

 

I wait until he closes his eyes, the satisfied smile still in place. Rolling slightly traps his arm beneath me, and just when he’s relaxed and confident, I grip my pillow and smack him with it. Peeta grunts and struggles to fight back, but with his arm caught under me, I have the advantage. He twists a leg around mine as laughter pours forth from me and I have to wriggle free to sit up or be ensnared.

 

With one last good  _ schwack _ on his head, I leap from the covers and race for the kitchen, pillow still in my grip. His footsteps thunder after me and as I round the island, putting it between us as a barrier, I stop and face him. His grin matches my own and we feint left. Then right.

 

“Now what, Katniss? You’re cornered,” he says with a gleam in his eyes.

 

“That’s what you think,” I taunt as I take a few steps to my left. He follows, and when we’re close to the corner, I fling the pillow at him as a distraction and bolt in the opposite direction. It almost works. Those broad shoulders might be good for lifting and carrying all the extra weight of his gear, but it makes changing direction difficult.

 

Peeta’s hands fumble on my wrist and I spin around to face him. We lose our balance and tumble into the wall. His hands steady me as I lean back against it; his touch light as I blink up at him, panting a stupid amount for the tiny bit of exertion from the chase. He’s not grinning anymore, but staring at me, like he’s searching for something. His head dips towards mine and my pulse stutters when he freezes. Doubt flickers, but I have not agonized for more than a month over that stupid calendar to stop here. 

 

I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him to me in an unrestrained kiss. We kissed for hours last night, each gentle kiss a revelation. The page of a book turned and driving the story forward, but this kiss is something else. Blood pounds in my ears as his hands roam over hips and back and finally grip my ass. My sound of delight is muffled in his mouth as his tongue demands to be welcomed. His hands release me and I want to protest, to tell him that noise meant  _ Fuck yes!  _ Not  _ Back off!  _ But my lips are busy with his and so I press myself closer. I don’t care if I’m desperate and throwing myself at him so hard I stick. Besides, it works. His hands tangle in my hair.

 

Feet aim towards my bedroom. If we nibbled on the edges last night, this morning we gorge ourselves. I can’t touch enough of him, and caress his jaw for just a moment before I’m tearing at his shirt. He tries to help, but his movements work counter to mine, and finally he settles for just raising his arms over his head as I tear the thing from his body and drop it on my floor where it belongs. 

 

“Kat-niss,” he says in between kisses. I bite his lip and he groans. Flatten my hands on his chest and shove. He smiles as he bounces and settles on my bed. Reaches for me as I crawl over him and straddle his hips. 

 

“Oh,” I gasp in mild surprise as I lower myself onto his hardening length. I grin and swivel my hips, and god that feels incredible. Peeta’s mouth drops open and he grips my thighs. His eyes devour me and I’ve never felt so desirable before in my life. I teasingly lift the hem of my shirt and then drop it as his fingers dig into my legs.

 

“Please don’t torture me like that,” he whines. I take a deep breath and peel my shirt off, baring my chest to him. “Oh fuck.”

 

Doubt creeps in and I curl in on myself. Begin to fold my arms over my breasts to hide from him. How stupid of me to think that just because he got a little hard and spent the better part of last night kissing me, that means he wants me.

 

“Oh no. No hiding,” he says, switching our positions and leaving me breathless at the sudden change. “You’re exquisite and made to be loved.”

 

“Peeta,” I breathe as his mouth sucks on my neck. He’ll probably leave a hickey but I couldn’t care less. I arch up into him and beg for more with my hips, but he leisurely kisses and sucks a path down my neck, across my collarbone, leaving shivers of need in his wake. 

 

“Oh, yes,” I moan as his lips travel over the tops of one breast, hoping it encourages him down further because as many times as I’ve stared at his lips while we talked or at his smile in that damned calendar, I didn’t really believe his mouth would live up to my midnight fantasies.

 

It surpasses them.

 

Finally, his lips close over one of my nipples. He bathes it then lifts his head to blow cool air over it. I whimper as it hardens and he shifts to my other breast. My hands wrench the pillows as the sensations intensify. I can’t take it any longer. 

 

“Oh god, Peeta. Do you have any condoms?”

 

He freezes and for one second, I think my bluntness has ruined everything, but he lifts his head and looks a little guilty.

 

“I don’t. It’s um, been awhile. Do you?”

 

“No,” I say and frantically try to justify fucking him without one.

 

“That’s alright,” he says, his fingers plucking the waist of my sweatpants. “I could spend all morning just kissing you.”

 

I let him, although my body screams for more. For all of it. But that doesn’t prevent me from reveling in the softly heated caresses of his lips. The gentle scrapes of teeth and tongue as he follows through on his claim, kissing me from one edge to the next. I writhe and pant, beg and plead as he only fuels my already overpowering need for him.

 

“May I?” he asks, slipping one finger beneath the waist of my pants and tugging down to expose my hip bone. He bites it lightly and then kisses even that, and I gasp on my answer.

 

“Yes! Please!”

 

My knees knock into him as I lift my hips while he removes the offending garment, intending to help and only causing problems, but he doesn’t seem bothered, settling between my thighs after he drops them on the floor, his nose nuzzling me through my panties and his shoulders holding me wide open. I squirm, embarrassed by how obviously aroused I am. Peeta opens his mouth, and his breath, filtered through the threads of my panties and cooled by the moisture already gathered there, makes me moan.

 

He slips his hands under my thighs, his fingers caressing them as he plants open mouthed kisses on my covered folds, his tongue laving over the cotton until his saliva is indiscernible from my arousal. I can’t stop the slow gyrations of my hips or the greedy gasps. I didn’t think I could hang any more off the brink of desire, but Peeta’s lips propel me further. When he stops, I whine, but then his fingers curl over my panties and draw them down my legs. 

 

“Fuck, I wanna taste you, Katniss,” he says and I suck in a shocked breath. His sensual words sound so like the dreams I had for weeks, that I kick my legs upwards, aiding in the removal of the last barrier between him and what we both want. I resettle myself on the bed as Peeta kneels between my legs, his eyes glazed and lips swollen from our kisses. His gaze is overwhelming, and I reflexively try to clamp my legs shut. I can’t though. Not with him in between them and his hands massaging my thighs.

 

“Can I? I’ll fucking beg if I have to, but you have no idea how many times I’ve thought about getting you off with my tongue.”

 

“You’ve...you’ve thought about that?” I freeze as I ask the question. Our eyes meet and he nods solemnly. 

 

“An embarrassingly high number of times,” he admits in a whisper.

 

“Um, no one’s ever, I mean I’ve never…” I trail off, embarrassed and inadequate as his hands continue massaging my thighs.

 

“Are you trying to tell me that no one’s made you come that way?” he asks incredulously.

 

“No, they haven’t,” I whisper, turning my head away so he can’t see the shame in my eyes. He moves so that he’s laying beside me and I bite my lip. Because who would want to touch me now, and I desperately want his hands and lips on me.

 

“Katniss,” he murmurs, kissing my ear and then my cheek. My neck. “I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with. But if you allow it, at some point in the near future, maybe not today, but soon, I will tongue fuck you until you scream for me to stop because you can’t quit coming. I’m not going to give up. Even if it takes me all day to get it just right for you.”

 

I whimper at his words, my legs rubbing together, seeking friction to relieve the immense pressure they, coupled with his hand roving over my hips and navel, have ignited in me. His lips return to mine, his tongue exploring me as I gasp and try to keep him longer. But he’s teasing me, a hummingbird tasting nectar then pulling back, and it’s driving me insane with need.

 

“Can I at least touch you?” he asks between kisses. I nod frantically and his hand skims lower.

 

With a deep breath, I relax my legs, letting them fall back to the bed as Peeta’s hand settles between my thighs, cupping me for a moment as we kiss. Then one finger curls back towards his palm, spreading my lips and coating his finger in me. I groan in exquisite relief, and Peeta swallows the sound, his touches growing more urgent as my hips move in a dance with his hand. His tongue still delves in my mouth, and as I squirm on the bed, my hand flying to his hair to tangle in the curls, I know what I want. My hand tugs on his hair and he lifts his head.

 

I want to know if he’ll taste me like that in place of what his hand is doing and if it will feel just as good.

 

“Peeta, I want you to try right now,” I murmur.

 

He groans and scrambles down the bed, kneeling between my legs. As his eyes fixate on me and I reconsider my request, he sucks me clean off his fingers.

 

“Katniss, you taste incredible,” he whispers then lowers his torso so he’s still on his knees but his face hovers over me. I move one of the pillows to cover my face and focus on taking deep breaths. His fingers trace over me and he marvels at how wet I am. I choke back my embarrassment when he kisses my thigh and moans.

 

“You make me so fucking hard, Katniss.”

 

Then his lips move higher and a whimper escapes my throat at the first tentative lick over my bare folds. Peeta curses again and licks once more, his tongue parting my lips slightly this time, and I’m about to scream at him to stop tormenting me and get on with it when his tongue enters me. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before, the soft drive of his tongue, the vibrato of his moans. The sparks covering my eyes, a mere echo of the feelings exploding to life beneath his mouth.

 

I lose track of everything but the heat of the sunlight streaming in through the window and the heat that Peeta feeds and builds. I vaguely catch phrases of awe and praise that fall from his lips when he pauses to take deep breaths before diving back in to taste me. It feels as though he wants to taste everything. Every last ridge and crevice, but especially my clit, which quakes beneath his tongue until it aches with the need for release. 

 

I throw the pillow across the room and grip his hair, lifting myself to stare down at him. He’s on his knees, ass lifted off the bed and torso angled down into me. His eyes are closed, but as I watch him, they flutter open and lock on mine. I beg shamelessly for him to make me come. 

 

Because I’m close, so close, teetering on the edge, held back only by a thread. He flicks harder, faster, directly on my clit before sucking it into his mouth and rolling it between his teeth. Never breaking eye contact. I scream his name as he hums and I am engulfed in blue flames the same shade as his eyes, legs clamping to contain the force of my release. The feel of his hair tickling my thighs, his still moving tongue, sends me toppling right back over into bliss before the first wave even stops.

 

We lay there, perfectly still as I try to reorient myself in my room. Gradually, my legs relax, relinquishing Peeta from their iron hold. I watch him through hooded eyes as he sits up on his knees, his pants tugged down enough to reveal his cock, one hand gripping it firmly. I lick my lips at the sight, the first I’ve seen him. All of him. He’s thicker than I’d imagined, the thatch of golden hair framing and cradling him. My core flutters as I realize he must have been jacking himself as he went down on me, and it’s got to be the sexiest thing a guy has done with me.

 

As he settles back on his knees with a satisfied grin, he releases himself and grasps his pants, but I’m not done looking, and truthfully, I want to touch him, too. To learn him and know him the way he now does me.

 

“Wait,” I say, resting a hand on his thigh. He freezes and watches me as I struggle to sit upright, shift on the bed so that I’m kneeling next to him. His gaze follows me, questioning until I reach out and tug his clothes back to where they were a second ago. I cup his balls and massage them lightly. “I want you to come, too.”

 

“Fuck,” he whispers, gripping himself again. He pumps himself once. Twice. His other hand curls around me and holds my navel tight against his hip as he bites his lips. He still hasn’t looked away from me as he pumps faster. Harder. The motions resounding in my core. His hips jerk, and suddenly, I want to be the one making him feel good.

 

Shoving his hand out of the way, I replace it with my own. I try to repeat what he was doing, but I haven’t done this in a long time.

 

“Is this okay?” I ask tentatively. The hand that’s not holding me close releases the sheets he’d just fisted and wraps around my hand, squeezing and guiding me. His head falls back, lips parted on a deep moan, and a thrill runs through me at having caused this reaction.  

 

“Gonna come soon,” he murmurs after a dozen or so passes of our hands over him, eyes on mine again. Then he shutters his gaze as we stroke faster yet. My wrist is starting to ache when his face scrunches in an almost pained expression. 

 

He lets go as I keep pumping and he pulls his pants back up over my hand on his cock. Then his hand is cupped over mine through the fabric, and I feel his hot cum drip down over my hand. Peeta moans my name, kissing me with lips contorted. Heaving breaths puff across my cheek as he slumps back on the bed, taking me with him. I wrap my arms around him, and his wrap around me. We remain there, tangled in one another as we kiss. 

 

After minutes or hours of this, Peeta cups my cheek in his hand and carefully separates our lips. I feel the look in his eyes deep in my gut. I want him to kiss me again, to feel that spread of hunger and need that superseded everything else.

 

I don’t get it, though. He drops one swift kiss to the tip of my nose and then disentangles himself from me. Dread settles in me as he fumbles around on my floor, shoves his feet in his shoes without bothering with socks. I grasp my sheets and drag them up to cover my naked body, confused and shamed.

 

“Where are you going?” I ask, voice laced with suspicion.

 

“Pharmacy down the street,” he says, then rests his hands on my bed to lean over me. His kiss steals my breath and I gasp into his open mouth as his tongue sweeps through mine, collecting all my doubts and swallowing them so I don’t have to.

 

“If you don’t want this, say it now, Katniss. Because I want to bury myself in you for the rest of the day. To feel you come on my cock as many times as I can get until we’re both too sore to move. And I am more than willing to run a block, reeking of sex and with my shorts covered in my cum just to make that happen. Right now.”

 

I am too stunned to speak for a second, and only manage a frantic nod. Then I push his shoulders towards my door and laugh at the relieved smile that lights his face.

 

“Go!” I shout as he grabs his wallet and keys then stumbles towards my door. “Run!”

 

Once Peeta is gone, I look around my room and grin. It’s agony waiting for him, even worse than last night. I clean myself up a little, tug on fresh panties and my shirt but don’t bother with the pants. Rebraid my hair and brush my teeth. Pace in my living room until I hear the staccato clumping of his feet racing down the hall. I throw my door open before he can knock and he barrels through as I step back to admit him and slam the thing shut on the rest of the world.

 

We collide and lock lips. Frantic arms and hands tearing at clothing. My shirt. His pants and shoes. The backs of my thighs hit the arm of the couch and we tumble onto it. There’s a  _ thunk  _ of something falling to the floor as Peeta wraps one arm around me and uses the other to brace our fall. I shove his underwear down over his hips, noting that he must’ve stopped to change and clean up anyways. While I appreciate that, I really just need him inside me. 

 

He gropes around on the floor as I pump his already hard cock and he groans into my mouth before lifting his head to focus on what he’s doing. I kiss his neck and ears, nibble on the soft lobe as he kicks off his boxers and tears open the box of condoms, the loud noise reverberating in my core. Each tear of the foil packets separating makes me whimper in impatience.

 

Peeta uses his teeth to open the packet. I hold him steady as he rolls it down over himself. A shove of panties off to the side, a few whispered words, one slow thrust and two mingled shouts of relief, and we’re joined. He leverages himself on the couch arm, thrusting down into me as I lift my hips to meet him.

 

We are clumsy and awkward in our haste, working at cross purposes until I grip his ass and he stills above me. Slowly, I undulate below him. He curses against my lips and then follows my movements. As we fall into an easy rhythm, the need within me bursts.

 

“Peeta,” I plead, words escaping me.

 

“Faster?” he asks, and I nod.

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

He shifts his knees, knocking my leg off the couch, but the change gives me more leverage with my foot on the floor now and we both groan as our hips slam together.

 

“Fuck! You feel so good, Katniss,” he exclaims and kisses me, slobber and teeth and desperation as we move, uninhibited. My nails dig into his ass and he grinds down into me, drinking my ecstatic moan at the new pressure on my clit. The noises I make tear our mouths apart.

 

“You like that?” he pants the words into my gaping mouth. I can't answer. I'm too close, dangling by fingertips and staring into the heart of a fire I've no wish to control. His shirt keeps getting caught between us and he yanks it free before holding the hem in his teeth.

 

“Come for me, Katniss,” he begs around the fabric. He says something else, but there's a ringing in my ears and a burning in my blood as I let go, reborn in the flames. 

 

I return to the world with Peeta's hand caressing my face and his unmoving hips cradled by mine. My throat raw and my core pulsing in aftershocks. He brushes several strands of hair off my forehead and kisses both of my cheeks while I try to remember how to breathe.

 

“Did you?” I gasp, and he shakes his head.

 

“Not yet. But I can wait,” he murmurs.

 

“No,” I say and force my tired limbs to move, to grasp the hem of his shirt and hold it up to his mouth again. “I want you to come like this, too.”

 

Peeta moans a curse and bites the cotton before he resumes the blistering pace. He breathes out garbled strings of filthy words around his shirt, about how I’m the most radiant person he’s ever seen and how incredible I feel on his cock and how badly he wants to make me come again just to hear me scream his name.

 

My hands roam, discovering the feel of his back and his shoulders. The edges of his burn scars, spread much further than I’d expected. The downy curls that tease the nape of his neck. Peeta rests his forehead on mine and pounds into me, words lost as he resorts to grunted moans and then a primal shout, his shirt falling from his mouth as he slams into me one last time, hips swiveling and arms trembling as he pulses against my walls.

 

Exhaustion drags my limbs, and I can tell Peeta’s not far from nodding off too as he kisses me. Lazy brushes of lips as we let our pulses slow.

 

When we’re both capable of speech again, we agree that we’re too tired to shower and instead take turns in the bathroom cleaning up just enough. While he’s in there, I gather our scattered clothes, depositing them in a heap on my bedroom floor. Then I pick up the strip of unused condoms, giggling foolishly at the mutilated box before I toss it in the trash can. As he emerges from the bathroom and sees me sliding the entire strip of condoms into my nightstand, he grins and ruffles his hair sheepishly. I shrug.

 

“Just in case,” I say, and Peeta wraps me in a warm embrace, nuzzles his lips against my neck.

 

“Good, because I’ve got a long list of things I want to do with you and those.”

 

We fall back into my bed, both of us in just our underwear. We lay on our sides, facing one another, fingers entwined and feet entangled. Peeta brings my fingers up to his lips, and the last thing I remember is the brush of his kiss over my knuckles.


	9. Hypersexuality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hypersexuality (der. nymphomania, satiryasis) - extremely frequent or suddenly increased sexual urges or sexual activity

**Hypersexuality (der. nymphomania, satiryasis)** \- extremely frequent or suddenly increased sexual urges or sexual activity

 

* * *

 

 

“This is the best movie ever,” Prim gushes in my ear and I agree with her. 

 

But then, I might’ve agreed to just about anything at this point. I’m still floating on some kind of giddy tonic fueled by orgasms. Earlier this afternoon, my phone alarm went off with enough time for a shower and some lunch before I had to flop onto the couch to watch the movie with Prim. I smile around my leftover stew as I take another bite. Lunch was postponed until during the movie due to smoking hot firefighter neighbor still in my bed. Not my fault. He was wearing next to nothing. And he kissed me first.

 

My toes curl as Prim laughs at yet another one of Elle’s snappy put-downs directed towards Warner. I really need to stop thinking about Peeta and focus on my time with my sister, but it isn’t easy when he left here rosy and disheveled and smiling, same as I was, telling me that I was more than welcome to knock on his door after I’d finished my sisterly bonding time. I make a mental note to take half of the condoms with me before honing back in on the trial sequences. These are my favorite parts of this movie.

 

I laugh with Prim and we yell at the screen to vent our anger at Professor Callahan, and even though we do this every week, I feel so much more lighthearted than usual when the credits roll. We talk for a few more minutes, catching up on the week’s news. She wants to know all about the Series, and although I do tell her some of the funnier anecdotes involving the calendar firefighters, I don’t talk about Peeta. Whatever this is sparking to life between us, I’m not ready to invite others in to examine it yet. It belongs to us for now, and it’s no one’s business but our own. Maybe after we go on our first date I’ll feel more comfortable talking about it with my sister, but for now, I’d rather not pick it to pieces or shove it under a microscope.

 

The final thing we talk about is our Thanksgiving plans.

 

“Oh my gosh! That’s a great idea!” Prim shouts when I mention maybe having Thanksgiving at my place instead of back home. “I’d love to spend a few days with you in the city! Can we go shopping on Black Friday? Have you talked to Mom?”

 

“Not yet,” I admit, but Prim’s enthusiasm for the idea is contagious. When we hang up, I decide to get it over with and finally call my mother. She’s stiff and uncommunicative at first until I launch into an invitation. For a second, I think I hear her crying on the other end, but then she adamantly accepts. I’ll have to deal with my low simmering disdain with her before she gets here, but for now, it’s enough that she’s at least trying. Still don’t trust her, though.

 

After, I curl up on my bed and hug my knees to my chest, wishing someone could hold me and tell me that everything will be okay. My father used to do that, guiding my sight towards things in this world that were good or beautiful to keep the dark thoughts at bay. As I roll over, a faint scent reaches me and winds through my senses. I smile at remembrances of starlit kisses and strong arms, gentle words that encouraged me to reach out to my mother, and suddenly it’s not some random wish for human comfort, but a specific desire for a specific set of arms that I already know can give me what I need.

 

Although I look like a bum in my t-shirt and sweatpants, I slide my feet into slippers, pluck a few condoms from the strip in my nightstand, and grab the bottle of wine from the fridge before knocking on Peeta’s door. He smiles when he opens it and I relax with the certainty that this is exactly what I need. I hold up the bottle and the shining foil packets for him to see.

 

“Com’ere,” he laughs and pulls me inside, we’re both still smiling as our lips meet.

 

As we lay panting in his bed much later, my body molten and heavy with my recent release, Peeta kisses me while we both come down off our highs. I can taste myself still lingering on his lips and a last shudder ripples through me. For some reason, Peeta seems to enjoy going down on me. A lot. This was the third time today, and I am still stunned at the delight he seems to take in the intimate act. And this time, he didn’t stop after one orgasm, but true to his earlier words, kept going until I was arched painfully on his bed and screaming incoherently, unable to stop the string of orgasms as they shook my entire being. By the time he slid his cock inside me, all I could do was hold onto his shoulders while he thrust at a frantic pace and finished with a loud shout. As he lifts his head, to end our kiss, I can’t stop the smile that spills across my face. 

 

“So about that date,” he says, and I giggle. Actually giggle. I’m not sure that I’ve ever giggled about anything, so I blame my juvenile behavior on all the sex. After all, we’re laying in his bed naked, his scalp and shoulders red with nail marks, my panties hanging precariously on the edge of his dresser where they landed after he flung them across the room. The thought just makes the giggles worse.

 

Giggling. Like one of my students caught with a naughty calendar. But _ that _ thought sobers me.

 

“I don’t know, Peeta. I don’t really like the idea of going somewhere we might run into one of my students. I’d never hear the end of it.” Already, Rue suspects. I haven’t forgotten her comments after the fire alarm a few weeks ago, and the events at the Series just yesterday will only serve to fuel her suspicions. I hate my personal life being on display, especially with my students.

 

“We can always go outside the city. Maybe hiking. A picnic on Panem Lake. Something like that.”

 

Biting my lip, I nod. He couldn’t know that the mining town I grew up in sits on the opposite shore of the lake. That the lake itself teems with memories of my Dad, who took me there to camp, to fish, even to hunt a little. Or my mother who would lounge on the shores of the lake with a book before she let herself turn into a shell.

 

“Okay,” I say anyways. Peeta must hear something in my tone because he shifts, laying on his side with his head propped on his palm to look down at me as I try to disappear into his pillows.

 

“Somehow that’s not the reaction I was expecting. Is there something else you’d prefer for our first date? I want it to be something you’ll enjoy.” His brow is furrowed and he looks so uncertain, it makes my stomach clench with something unpleasant. He’s suggested a date I’d usually leap at the chance to go on. It’s actually sweet of him to come up with one based on my interests. Another reminder that I am terrible at this. He reaches out and gently brushes back a strand of my hair off my forehead. 

 

“Just tired,” I tell him, not wanting to ruin the bliss still humming quietly in my veins or the comfort I felt with him sleeping beside me last night. Peeta smiles softly and kisses my forehead where he’d just caressed, clearly accepting my evasion at face value.

 

“Okay. We can decide later,” he says before offering his shower to me. I’m expecting him to join me, so when he leaves me alone after getting the water started for me, mumbling that he’s just going to get dinner started for us, I sit heavily on the toilet to think through if I did something to upset him. The room begins to fill with steam, though, and I quickly shower. When I’m done, he leaves me in charge of the dinner while he takes a turn. I shrug the odd behavior off, though, because once we’re seated at his table and he’s laughing at one of my more exciting hunting stories from when my Dad was alive, it doesn’t seem to matter that we didn’t share a shower. 

 

After we’ve cleaned up the kitchen, I sit on the counter while he rolls out dough for a breakfast bread. I like watching his hands as he works, molding and shaping the dough, bits of the stuff and flour covering his hands and wrists. Peeta’s voice takes on this low cadence that mimics the movements of his hands, as if his entire being is involved in the shaping of this one loaf of bread. He rarely even looks at me while he speaks, his story about his older brothers and the mischief they’d get into punctuated with comments about what he’s doing with the bread. I like it, hearing the explanations for this craft of his as well as the stories about his brothers. But again, it makes me wonder where they are now.

 

With the dough set out to rise and the sun long since sunk below the horizon, we curl up in his bed without discussion. At first, we shift awkwardly, getting used to elbows and knees that usually aren’t there. The sounds of the city drift in through the cracked window. Peeta adds another blanket on top of me, whispering that he doesn’t want me to get chilled, but between the heavy material and his body heat turning the space beneath the sheets into an inferno, I toss the blanket aside. Then I grow cold and with a huff, have to burrow into his side. Peeta chuckles at me, but wraps the sheets more tightly around me along with his arms. Closing my eyes, I release a content sigh, eventually drifting into the deep sleep of satisfaction.

 

My alarm goes off first in the morning, and although Peeta gets up with me and we eat breakfast together, he’s working nights again this week. When I leave to get dressed and ready for the day in my own apartment, he crawls back into his bed. I feel refreshed, and it must show to my students, because a few of them comment about how  _ cheerful _ I am. That’s not a word that’s usually associated with me, especially not on a Monday.

 

Thankfully, the other teachers and most of the students associate my good mood with the results of the baseball games this weekend and the promise of new lab equipment. Rue is the only one who whispers to her classmates and smiles at me like the cat who ate the canary. All the more reason for me to not be seen dating Peeta in public.

 

The good mood doesn’t last, though. All talk about dates and any chance at a repeat of what happened in either of our bedrooms and on my couch is basically halted for the week. With the school play approaching fast, I stay at work later and later. By the time I get home, Peeta’s already left for his shift at the firestation. We manage a few minutes together in the mornings. A quick conversation over breakfast before I have to hurry into work. Maybe a kiss or two, but that’s about it.

 

During the nights, I’ll roll over, reaching out for a warmth that isn’t there, snarling and covering my head with my pillow when I realize that I want him there. Two nights. That’s all it took for him to work his way under my covers and make himself irreplaceable. I try cuddling with an extra pillow, but it can’t hold me and the heat that it does retain is only a reflection of my own.

 

By Friday, I’m back to my usual stern mein with my students, or maybe even more so. They grumble and shuffle their feet as I try to talk them through their lab before sending them on their way to get it done. When Florence spills the vial of bacteria they’re supposed to be growing, I purse my lips and count to ten. She looks close to tears and I have to take a deep breath before helping her clean up the mess.

 

“I’m so sorry, Ms Everdeen. It was an accident.”

 

“It’s fine,” I say, but I can tell my words do nothing to soothe her. 

 

Even Rue avoids my gaze the rest of the class and as they leave, I catch more than one disgruntled complaint about the amount of homework I’ve assigned over the weekend. Once they’ve left, I bury my face in my hands and groan loudly.

 

“Are you alright?” Annie asks me from my doorway. I lift my head and try to smile at her. “Wow. You’re not alright. Do you want to go grab a drink and talk about it?”

 

“No, thank you, Annie.” I decline because the last thing I want to do right now is to be social. 

 

“Okay, see you on Monday then,” she waves at me and then disappears down the hallway, giving me the distinct impression that she doesn’t much feel like socializing either.

 

I drive myself home on autopilot and toss some leftovers in the microwave to heat them up for dinner, but I end up picking at them and listening to the silence in my apartment while staring at the empty chair across my table. And I admit it to myself. Solitude is not what I want right now.

 

What I want is to sit on my couch with Peeta’s arms wrapped around me while I complain into his shoulder about my awful week and my awful day. I want him to kiss away my scowl and then fill the night air with our moans and strained whispers. But can I even want all of that yet?

 

I don’t care. I’m done with the tossing and turning. Even if he’s crawling into bed in the hours right after dawn, I want him here with me when I wake tomorrow morning. I try calling him, but he did warn me that cell reception inside the fire station is sometimes unreliable. I could leave a message, but instead I toss my unfinished meal back in the fridge, pull on my most comfortable shoes, and walk the four blocks to the District Twelve fire station. No better way to deliver a message than in person.

 

Two of the massive garage doors are open, a gleaming truck parked in one while the other is empty. I can’t find a front door, so I cautiously step inside the empty, open garage. Someone is playing rock music, the sound thin as it comes from deep inside somewhere. A handful of lockers line the walls, boots lined up in front of open doors revealing flame retardant coats and helmets, pants pooled around the boots, ready to be donned at a moment’s notice. A laugh echoes down a wide hallway that leads further into the station. As I stand there, debating what to do, a hulking man lumbers out into the garage. His reddish beard and features are somewhat familiar and he smiles before signing to me.

 

_ Can I help you? _

 

My shoulders relax as I remember. This is Mr. September.

 

_ I’m looking for Peeta. _

 

I use the sign Peeta taught me for his name -- pointer finger out with middle finger and thumb curved down in the letter p before rolling my hand over the air -- instead of spelling it out, cringing in the split second after as I realize that Mr. September might not know the sign. He grins widely at me, though, and starts signing at such a fast pace, I can’t keep up. Clearly, he recognized Peeta’s name, but now I can’t catch enough to understand him. He pauses and shakes his head, then starts over at a much slower place, clearly seeing my distress.

 

_ He’s out answering a call. They just reported that they’re on their way back. Should be here any minute. Come inside. _

 

I follow Mr. September down the short wide hallway into a huge room that catches me off guard. It’s basically a kitchen-great room combination, one wall dominated with a massive flat screen. A couple of firefighters sit on the couch in front of it, fingers and trash talk flying as they maneuver through one of the  _ Call of Duty _ landscapes. I have no idea which specific game it is, just know enough from my students’ chatter to be able to identify it.

 

“Take that, fuckstick!” I blink at Ms. August as she jumps up on the couch in triumph and her opponent flings his controller aside, face distorted in disgust. His character on the screen flops to the ground, dead.

 

“Your creative nicknames boggle the imagination,” he says, glaring up at her as she sticks her tongue out at him and holds her hand out, wiggling her fingers expectantly.

 

“Pay up, Junior,” she says and the firefighter sighs but pulls out a set of keys before dropping them in her hands.

 

“I fucking hate that nickname the most, though,” he grumbles.

 

“Suck it up, bitches!” she shouts, brandishing the keys as she dances over to a locked cabinet.

 

“You lost to Mason?” Another firefighter enters and I have to take a step back. Even though I’ve seen him several times before, Mr. July’s stunning visage shocks me once again. Ms. August cackles as the AC/DC song that’s been playing stops abruptly. The losing firefighter doesn’t even try to protest, instead pulling the hood of his sweatshirt up over his copper hair and crossing his arms defiantly as Ms. August cranks up the volume and P!nk’s  _ Just Like a Pill  _  blares through the speakers throughout the building.

 

“What the fuck? Who gave Mason the keys to the stereo?!” A disembodied voice shouts from somewhere else in the station.

 

“Do you see what you did?” Mr. July asks the losing firefighter. “Come on, little bro. We’re gonna have to listen to this shit for a week now.”

 

“Then you play her next time.” He tilts his head back to glare at Mr. July and I nearly choke on my own saliva. There’s an obvious age difference, but there’s no denying that these two are blood related. I now recognize him from the series as Mr. November. Peeta did mention that July and November were brothers. A quick count tells me that at least five of the calendar firefighters work at this particular station. May-July-August-September-November.

 

“Suck it, Odair,” August crows again as she saunters past July, grabbing her own crotch in a vulgar gesture that makes him roll his eyes. Beside me, September’s shoulders shake in silent laughter.

 

“I already lost to her twice,” July argues with his brother. He opens his mouth to say something else, but September waves a hand, catching July’s attention. His eyes widen as he spots me standing next to the silent Mr. September.

 

“Well, well, Pollux,” July oozes towards us, speaking and signing at the same time. “What have you got there?”

 

_ She’s here for Peeta _ .

 

Pollux smiles and steps aside as August turns down the volume on the stereo and November stands, flipping back his hood to examine me. I feel like a rabbit caught in a den of wolves with the way they’re looking at me. I search my brain for the names Peeta gave me for his co-workers. Unable to come up with the names, I fixate on July’s shirt, which reads:  _ Keep Calm and Let Me Save Your Kitty  _ underneath a generic firefighter crest. I snort and he grins.

 

“See something you like?” he asks, his voice low and seductive. As he gets uncomfortably close to my face, he licks his lips. Ugh. I suppose it works on the rabid calendar fans, but to me it’s just cloying and annoying. I cross my arms over my chest and look around the room.

 

“No, not really,” I say, making my voice dull with boredom. August laughs boisterously and July lifts an eyebrow in surprise, but his smirk turns into something more like a genuine smile. He really is stunningly handsome, but having seen him flirt shamelessly with every breathing human being within his reach, I can honestly say I’m not interested in anything he has to offer.

 

“I’ve seen you before,” he murmurs and sweeps his gaze over me. “Have we flirted before this?”

 

“Guess it’s hard to forget a face you lose to.” August laughs again at my words as July’s eyes widen out -- Finnick, I remember now. And November’s his younger brother, Daniel. The one that gave a cheerleader a bloody nose while trying to ask her out.

 

“I like this one,” August says as she drapes an arm around me roughly. “Can we keep her?”

 

“She’s not a pet, Johanna,” Finnick says in an oddly warning tone, but he doesn’t seem to be put out by my rejections, and I am saved from further scrutiny by the deep rumble of an engine returning to the garage bay. They disperse and I hang back, watching as they help their brethren return their gear to a ready position, check the truck, trade banter. 

 

“So, how’d it go?” Finnick asks a firefighter I don’t recognize.

 

“Another damn fake kitchen fire.”

 

“Another one?” Johanna asks in disgust.

 

“Yep, same as all the others this week,” June says as he walks around the truck. I remember him from the series as well. He’s bulky with dark red hair and a trimmed beard, an earring in his left ear, Pollux’s brother or maybe even his twin, I think. A pang hits me as I realize what this must do to Peeta, working so closely with at least two pairs of biologic brothers. I crane my neck to see if maybe one of the other firefighters doffing his gear has blonde hair, hoping maybe I’m wrong and his brothers are firefighters, too. But none of them resemble Peeta at all.

 

_ That’s the fourth one this week,  _ Pollux signs to his brother. Johanna shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

 

“Whose number did they want this time?” she sneers.

 

“Thresh or Gloss,” Peeta answers as he hops down from the truck and Johanna snorts. He’s already removed his protective gear and checks the air tanks in compartments along the side of the truck.

 

“But they didn’t seem too disappointed to see us instead, did they Peeta?” June asks with a wide grin. What the hell does that mean? 

 

“This is fucking ridiculous. Maybe we should put up a sign. STOP SETTING YOUR KITCHENS ON FIRE!” Johanna complains.

 

“Or maybe we should stop being so sexy,” Finnick says. Rags and someone’s jacket get thrown at him as their voices and guffaws overlap and I suddenly feel as though I’m intruding on something special. A family bantering as they talk about their day at work.

 

I’m wondering if there’s another way out of the station so I can slip out unnoticed. Peeta might not even want me here. It’s not like he invited me to stop by. But as I’m backing slowly down the hallway, Johanna’s eyes fall on me again.

 

“Oh, by the way, you’ve got a visitor, Peeta,” she hikes her thumb in my direction and crosses her arms over her chest as eight pairs of eyes swing towards me. Peeta’s smile lights the world as he excuses himself, but the others pause what they’re doing to focus on me. One of them whistles and another makes a crack about him slacking on work, needing to keep his pants on just in case. Once more, I feel like a rabbit caught in a wolf den.

 

“Hey,” he whispers as he cups a hand on my elbow and leads me deeper into the station. 

 

“Show her how you handle your hose, Peeta!” 

 

“Please ignore them,” Peeta implores, his face turning adorably pink.

 

“They seem...lively,” I say cautiously.

 

“That’s a diplomatic description. I’d call them nosy as hell,” he says, but he turns his head to grin at me, and somehow, I imagine that he’s fully capable of dishing it right back to them.

 

“I can leave if I’m causing a problem,” I say. Peeta maneuvers us past the great room and up a short set of stairs into a long hallway lined with about a dozen doors.

 

“No, it’s fine. I’d be surprised if they didn’t act this way,” Peeta says, pausing in front of one of the doors. He faces me, his hands rub over my arms and the touch is so soothing that I forget all the teasing that no doubts awaits me at his expense. This is why I wanted to see him. The steadiness that he brings to everything. I’ve been missing that all week. Missing him. The thought startles me and to distract myself, I look around at where we are. I wrinkle my brow in confusion.

 

“What’s this place?”

 

“We’re here for a long time on our shifts, so this is where we go if we need privacy or sleep.” He opens the door we’re next to and I poke my head in. It’s a tiny bedroom, sparsely furnished, not much more than a closet, really. There’s a black backpack exactly like the one he always carries tossed on top of the narrow bed. 

 

“I just wanted to get away from them for a minute.” He tilts his head back towards the others and I smile tightly. Can’t say that I blame him. “I’m really glad to see you, though, Katniss.”

 

His hands slide down to mine and he laces our fingers together. A door opens a little ways up the hall and another firefighter I don’t recognize walks by with headphones in her ears. She nods to Peeta before she continues. He holds his breath and closes his eyes and I’m wondering why when she shouts back over her shoulder.

 

“Don’t forget to wash the sheets later, Mellark.” Peeta releases a strained laugh and shakes his head.

 

“Can I just apologize now for every one of my asshole co-workers?” he says, but I shrug because truthfully, her comment has reminded me of the reason I came here.

 

“I’ll survive. You forget I work with adolescents five days a week as well,” I say and nod towards the tiny room that’s still open. “Is this one yours?”

 

“For today,” he says. When I step inside, Peeta follows. I flatten my hand on the panel, shutting the door and giving us a modicum of privacy. The room seems so much smaller with him in it and the words I wanted to speak get lost in my throat. “What brings you here? Not that I’m complaining.”

 

_ I can’t stand to wake up another morning without you. _

 

“Long week,” I say instead because we haven’t even been on a first date yet, but the pull I feel towards him is undeniable.

 

“Yeah, same here,” he says. My curiosity gets the better of me then, and I’m still working up the nerve to tell him what I want anyways.

 

“What did they mean, about the kitchen fires?”

 

“Oh, well,” he scrubs his hand over the back of his neck and looks a little sheepish. “We’ve had an unusually high number of calls on kitchen fires this week and um, well none of them have turned out to be anything serious.”

 

“Just girls trying to catch a hot calendar firefighter?” I ask testily, crossing my arms as Peeta steps closer, his embarrassment visibly dissolving the angrier I get. I can feel my cheeks heating and my pulse drumming, a strange desire to throw something, but there’s nothing to throw in this bare bones dormitory.

 

“That’s what Finnick and a few of the others suspect,” Peeta murmurs. Rage flashes deep inside me at that stupid calendar and every human being who’s seen Peeta’s picture in it and thought of what it might be like to have those arms around them or holding him over them. I’d like to hunt every last one of them down and perform a lobotomy on their brains.

 

“Any of them looking for Mr. May?” There’s venom in my voice but it only seems to amuse him.

 

“Now how would you know which month I was?” He’s smiling again and I want to wipe the smug look right off his face. I scramble for an answer that won’t give away my dirty secret still hiding in my closet. My anger slows down my thinking and I’m blushing in an aggravating tell, and then I remember the jerseys they wore at the Series. The pageantry and the announcements.

 

“You had it on the back of your baseball shirt and Caesar announced it,” I taunt. He seems unfazed by this, though, tilting his head so our lips are almost touching and holy smokes do I want him to kiss me again. I don’t care that he’s at work and there’s close to a dozen people somewhere on the other side of that thin door and they all assume we came in here to make out or fuck or whatever.

 

“What about you, Katniss? Would you want Mr. May putting out your kitchen fire? Or someone else?”

 

“You already did that once,” I remind him. His lips twitch in a stifled laugh, brushing against mine, and fuck it all and fuck his co-workers too. I want him. Now.

 

I wrap my arms around his neck and practically sigh with relief as he finally kisses me. I think I’ve been starving for this, the feel of his lips on mine, his broad hands splayed across my back, holding me to him. For the shuddering breaths he takes through his nose as impossible warmth courses through me. The slide of his tongue, asking for me to let him in. I do so, stuttering through a moan as his hips thrust into me and he paints the contours of my mouth. I find myself with my back flat on one of the bare walls, his hands cupping my jaw, thumbs gently tugging to keep my mouth open to him.

 

My knees shake as I remember what that tongue and those lips have done to me, and my request, my reason for being here, flutters away as a new need consumes me.

 

“Peeta?” I whisper as he shifts to kiss my neck. I run my hands down his chest and try to focus. He’s not making it easy and it takes a few tries before I get my question out. “What are -- oh god, Peeta -- what are the odds of there being a -- a -- fuck stop kissing me for a second! A fire in the next five minutes?”

 

Slowly, he lifts his head to look at me and I take the chance his respite provides to unbuckle his belt.

 

“The other team will take it if there is. But I don’t exactly have anything with me here at work, Katniss.”

 

I flush at his words, realizing that neither do I since I hadn't planned on jumping him like this when I left my home. We really need to just have a condom on us at all times from now on, but I’ll deal with that later. I nod as I unbutton his pants and draw his zipper down. I am determined that if I can’t have everything I want right now, at the very least, I want to make him fall apart the way he does to me. I palm him over his shorts and his face contorts with some attempt at control even as he bucks into my touch.

 

“Let me,” I whisper, unable to finish the thought, but I slowly lower myself to crouch close to the ground, leaving his hands hovering in the air. He’ll get the idea. “Take off your shirt?”

 

He does as I ask and I caress over the flat planes of his navel. The muscles there contract under my touch, revealing themselves through his tautened skin. I bite my lip and glance up at him as I tug down his pants and plain grey briefs just enough to free his half-hard cock. I falter for a second, suddenly worried I won’t be able to get all of him in my mouth, but I can do this. It can’t be too hard, right? Locking my gaze with his, I lick my lips and then tuck my face beneath him, swiping my tongue up his sack and breathing out in relief when he curses reverently and flattens his hands on the wall for support.

 

“Fuck, Katniss.”

 

I bite his hip, the way he’s done to me countless times, and he gasps as I trace the fresh pink marks with my tongue. Surrendering himself to me, he tilts his head back, and even though I’m the one on my knees, I feel a surge of power. He’s almost fully erect now, so I grab the base of him, and looking up to gauge his reaction, lick over his slit, tasting the bead of pre-cum that glistens in the harsh fluorescent lighting. His cock jumps in my grip and he contains a moan.

 

And I want him to feel the way he’s made me feel, worshipped and desired, kissed and licked to the brink and then over it into euphoria. So I swirl my tongue around his head, focus right under the ridge after I watch his abs clench in response to a quick suck there. He lowers his chin again, opening his eyes to watch me with heated blue pools hazed over with intensity as I open my mouth wide and swallow as much of him as I can. Peeta doesn’t look away as I suck him, keeping my fist tight on him so I know how far I can go before I’ll start to gag. 

 

As I start to bob faster, I wobble on my feet, my fist twisting on him. But he thrusts himself into my mouth and grunts in response to the rough touch. I try it again, moving my hand in a twisting pump over him as I continue to suck. The strangled sounds he keeps in his chest emboldens me. I grip his thigh with my other hand to keep my balance as I bob faster over him, and his hips keep moving in time with my mouth. Eventually, I lean back fully against the wall, unable to maintain the pace he seems to need.

 

“Fuck, ooooh fuck,” he whispers, his voice a higher pitch than normal. “You can -- fuck,  _ Katniss _ \-- you can stop. I can stop.”

 

Unwilling to quit, I pull him with me, humming around him and gripping his thigh tight enough so that he knows. I want him to cum in my mouth. I want to taste his release as he’s tasted mine. I want to make Peeta’s cock and every last part of him mine and for him to know it too, every time he answers some call for a skank setting her kitchen on fire and hoping for Mr. May to answer. The only fires of desire he’ll be handling from now on are mine.

 

The burning jealousy spurs me on, and as he takes over, thrusting himself into my mouth, I hear the scrape of his nails on the wall, feel the pulse of his vein under my tongue. His face twists in agony as he gets close. He tries to pull back from me but I move my hands and grip his ass, opening my throat and lowering myself a little to elongate my neck, yanking him towards me until I’m caught between him and the wall, until my lips are flush with his body. His knees give out and thud into the wall on either side of me. He quietly groans my name, his semen coating my throat as I swallow each spurt. It’s hot and salty and not that appetizing, but the sounds he’s making and the look on his face make it worth it.

 

Curious, I flick my tongue out over his sack and his legs shudder, his hips rotating as a last spurt shoots down my throat. And holy fuck am I wet for him. These panties are ruined, and I don’t even care. He’s beautiful when he comes, even more so knowing that I did this to him.

 

Breathing heavily, eyes still locked on mine, he pushes himself off the wall. I let my tongue and teeth drag along his length as he goes and he curses once more before his cock bounces free of my mouth. Leaving one hand on the wall, he grasps his pants to keep them from falling and I wipe the mess from my lips. Peeta staggers back a step before helping me to my feet.

 

“Your turn,” he croaks, and I shake my head, smiling deviously as he tucks himself back in his pants. I pull the spare key to my apartment from my pocket and hold it up for him to see. “What’s that?”

 

“Tomorrow is Saturday. Come sleep in with me after you get off work. And then we can pack a lunch and take that hike.”

 

His gaze darts between me and the key, his hand reaching carefully towards it, as though he’s afraid I’ll snatch it away. I don’t, and he pockets it with a wide smile before crushing me to his chest and kissing the breath out of me. I tangle my hands in his hair and hold on as the world spins around us. I briefly wonder if he can taste himself on me and for some reason, I hope that he can and that it turns him on as much as tasting myself on his lips does me.

 

Static crackles and a voice announces over a loudspeaker system that dinner is being prepared in the kitchen and anyone with cooking duties tonight needs to get their ass down there now. Peeta sighs against my lips and rests his forehead on mine.

 

“That would be me. Stay for dinner?” he whispers.

 

“Are they going to make fun of us?” I ask, hating how scared I sound.

 

“Without mercy,” he admits. “I’ll understand if you don’t stay.”

 

I feel like a coward, but really, I just met most of them for the first time tonight and I’m not sure I can handle their merciless teasing and scrutiny just yet. Peeta walks me out, pressing one last kiss just below my earlobe and whispering that he’ll see me in bed. I don’t feel the autumn chill as I walk back home. I’m warmed through and relaxed, which makes my quiet evening reading my book and eating my leftovers go that much faster. Even my sleep is restful.

 

I dream of the woods and cool leaves floating over me as I bask in the sunshine. They tickle and tease, somehow sensual. Even as I dream, I can feel the urgency of arousal, and as awareness returns, I realize they’re not leaves at all but Peeta’s rapidly warming lips on my neck. Now this is a wake up call I can appreciate, I think briefly as he lifts his body off mine to remove his shirt and I murmur that it’s about time he got here. It’s still dark out, so I can’t see him well, but I know his voice in the darkness.

 

“I’ve been thinking about sucking your pussy all night, Katniss,” he whispers as he moves to kneel close to my head, swallowing my soft morning sounds with his mouth as his hand skims over my breasts, down into my panties. My hips lift into his touch, knees falling open for him as his fingers trace my lips and his tongue samples the moans I make. Languid pleasure awakens to his touch. To the echo of his returned moans as I grow wet around his fingers. 

 

When I can hear how turned on I am, he lifts his head. I protest as his fingers leave me, but they do so only so he can shove my panties off my body and for him to reposition himself between my legs. Moonlight catches on his hair, making it gleam and I toy with a few of the locks as he kisses my inner thighs.

 

“I can’t get over the way you sucked my cock last night,” he whispers into the delicate skin, his hot breath and hotter words making me shudder. “Only thing better than your mouth on me is your pussy. I kept getting hard after you left. Every time I thought about it. Watching your eyes as you fucking blew my world. Then thinking about the way you squeeze me when you come on my cock. God, Katniss. I want to rail you into the bed right now.”

 

“Peeta, please,” I whine, unsure if I’m asking him to shut up and eat or shut up and fuck me.

 

“Not yet, Katniss. First I’m gonna drink your pussy till you fucking scream my name. I meant it when I said that it’s your turn now.”

 

All thoughts are erased as he tugs my hips off the bed and my clit into his mouth. The lingering chill on his skin and the heat underneath it drives me insane with the contrast, but within seconds, it no longer matters. Everything is hot as his tongue devours me. Denied release last night, my body responds to him faster than a backdraft. 

 

My back bows off the bed as my mouth opens, frozen on a silent scream of pleasure. My hands ache as I cling to the sheets beneath me. The rise is too fast and it skips out of reach. But Peeta doesn’t relent, rolling us so that I’m straddling his face. I sink down into his mouth and roll my hips, his hands guiding me as he sucks and flicks and I grip his hair because I need to come so bad my clit hurts.

 

He watches every twitch of my expression, one hand sneaking beneath me, fingers curling inside me and making me scream as I fly apart, throwing my head back and yanking on his hair, pulling his face deeper into me in the hope that his nearness will keep me from disintegrating.

 

“Peeta,” I moan, his name the only thing I can manage as he gently lays me on the bed and rolls over me. My legs writhe as I fight back impending aftershocks, but his fingers, still slick with my release don’t let me, gently pumping me as I cry out with each subsequent shock he wrings from my core.

 

When I’m finally limp, one arm thrown over my eyes, Peeta removes his fingers and kisses my hip before sucking me off his digits. The sounds alone are arousing, but he surprises me. Rather than continuing, he shucks his pants and then pulls the sheets up over us. I’m down to a t-shirt only, but as he tucks us into the blankets and his radiated warmth, I almost instantly fall back into sleep. And if he weren’t still there -- with my covers pulled up to his nose and one hand tucked between my legs -- the next time I wake, I might’ve thought it was all a dream. But I know now that I’m not letting us go that long without sleeping together again.


	10. Malapert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malapert - Clever in manners of speech

**_Malapert_ ** _ \- Clever in manners of speech _

 

* * *

 

Does it count as a first date if you wake in the person’s arms? 

 

We lounge in bed, drifting between awake and asleep, Peeta’s fingertips skating over my legs and hips, etching cool patterns or maybe words into my skin. It’s such a luxury to wile away the hours this way. We get up to eat, but it isn’t until early afternoon that we’re both awake and willing enough to actually go on our hiking date.

 

I dress in cotton pants and a t-shirt, tugging on a hooded sweatshirt for warmth. Peeta leaves me for a few minutes to dress in his apartment and returns garbed much the way I am, his black backpack slung over one shoulder.

 

It doesn’t feel like a first date as I drive us out of town, since Peeta apparently doesn’t own a car, preferring to walk or use public transportation to get around the city. We talk and laugh, the windows down and the crisp fall air making a tangled mess of flyaways even though I braided my hair. I tell him about the time my father and I got ourselves chased up a tree by a black bear when we plucked berries from a bush he’d apparently already laid claim to. And as I park in one of the lots at the trailhead near Lake Panem, I realize that I’ve never been this comfortable on a first date before.

 

That may have something to do with the fact that we’ve already kissed and...well...fucked like rabbits, but I think it has more to do with Peeta. I truly just enjoy spending time with him.

 

“Think you could make some more noise? Don’t think they heard you in Capitol City,” I tease after we’ve gone about a half mile. His booted feet crunch leaves beneath their weight. He’s so noisy, I haven’t seen a single animal. If we were trying to hunt or something, it might annoy me, but right now, it’s just amusing.

 

“Is there a noise ordinance out here?” he asks with a smile and I laugh and shake my head.

 

The day is warmer than we anticipated, probably nature’s last fling with summer before the cold of autumn takes over until spring chases it away. We have to remove our sweatshirts around the one mile mark and I can’t help the laugh that bursts free of my lips at the shirt Peeta’s wearing. He blushes and tugs on it.

 

“Need to do laundry,” he mutters sheepishly and I grip the cotton in my hands, pulling his body into mine possessively.

 

“Or just get rid of this shirt,” I say and he smiles.

 

“Jealous?”

 

“You’re proclaiming your availability with this shirt.”

 

“It was a birthday present from Finnick a couple years back,” he murmurs, his head dipping closer to mine. I release the shirt and keep on hiking.

 

“Why does that not surprise me,” I say and Peeta laughs. I take one last glance back at his shirt and he gives me an expectant look as I shake my head over the words:  _ Feel Safe at Night, Sleep with a Firefighter. _

 

“Care to attest to the validity of the shirt?” he asks and I scowl slightly at him, not willing to admit that at least, in Peeta’s case, the words are alarmingly accurate.

 

When we reach the lake, we’re both famished and quickly set out our picnic lunch. More stew from Sae’s and fresh bread that Peeta baked at the firestation last night. Cool apple cider and a small wheel of savory cheese. I stare out over the glistening waters as we eat, nostalgia creeping into the edges of my being until I can’t hold it back any longer.

 

“My dad used to bring us here all the time. He taught me how to swim in this lake,” I say with a nod towards it. “Caught my first sturgeon on that dock while my mother was reading a book to Prim.”

 

Peeta squints out over the water in the direction I’m pointing. Then he sets down his half-eaten bowl of stew and moves closer to wrap his arms around me. I rest my head on his shoulder and try not to be obvious about the sigh that leaves me. 

 

“You love being out here, though. Even if some of the memories are painful?” he sounds a little uncertain, but he’s so right about me that my chest feels as though it’s about to burst. I lift my head and smile at him.

 

“What about you?” I ask softly, not wanting to be the only one left open and raw.

 

“What about me?”

 

“You’ve told me so many stories about your brothers, but they’re all in the past tense. Like they’re no longer a part of your life,” I say.

 

“I don’t want to ruin a perfect date with more of my tragic backstory,” he says and tweaks my nose before kissing me, but I will not be deterred. I lean back and shake my head with a smile and a laugh at the disgruntled look on his face at being denied a kiss.

 

“I want to know, Peeta. I told you mine,” I say with a wave towards the lake. He stares at me for a moment. I‘m thinking that maybe I crossed a line and he’s not going to tell me when he heaves a sigh, seemingly coming to some sort of monumental decision.

 

“Graham was already eighteen, so after Mom and Dad died, he took off on his own. Ryen and I lived with my mother’s family for just under a year, but that didn’t really work out.” His voice takes on this low pitch, almost monotone as he brings up painful memories.

 

“Why not?” the question slips out, rude and prying, but I’m humming with curiosity.

 

“Mainly because of me, but also because of Ryen,” Peeta says, his eyes averted. “We weren’t...easy to deal with.”

 

“You’d just lost both your parents,” I argue and Peeta scoffs a little, his shoulders shrugging.

 

“That doesn’t excuse it. We were kind of assholes, almost constantly getting into fights or into trouble,” he explains. “And there were medical bills that no one wanted to pay.”

 

I blink as he absently flicks a hand over the side of his neck. Reaching out, I twine our fingers together near his neck. He stops hiding from me, eyes locking as I caress our joined fingers over the edges of the scars.

 

“My parents weren’t...” he whispers and sighs before continuing, “The bakery was struggling anyways and whatever health insurance we had wasn’t enough to deal with mental trauma and burn trauma, so…Ryen started working to help pay for my expenses when Mom’s family basically refused to cover anything but basic care. The months went by and things with Mom’s family just got more awkward. We were passed between houses every few months. He got angrier. When they moved us into foster care and I was finally old enough to get a job of my own, Ryen split. I haven’t heard from him in years.”

 

“How’d this happen?” I whisper as my fingers dip into his hair, over the smooth scarring and then across the ridge between scar tissue and his untouched scalp.

 

“Graham had us get in a line behind him. Ryen holding Graham’s shoulders. Me holding Ryen’s. Then Graham walked us to the window. He didn’t want us to get separated, even though there was no way for us to get down from that window without help. But that meant that my back was closest to the fire while we waited. Didn’t take much. Just a few stray, grasping flames.”

 

A vice settles on my lungs as he finishes his story, a wish that he hadn’t needed to go through all of this.

 

“After Ryen left, I was shuffled between a few foster homes for the next year. No one wants a kid that damaged, especially not a teenager. When I turned sixteen, Graham filed to be my guardian. By then he was twenty and a lot more stable in life. It wasn’t great. He didn’t magically turn into this amazing father figure or anything like that, but at least he was family. And he understood me better than most. Anyways, I signed up for PFD right after I graduated high school. The guys down at the firestation are my real family now.”

 

“Oh Peeta,” I murmur and lean towards him. His hand shoots up between us, covering my lips. I sputter and blink in surprise, but his eyes are unwavering.

 

“Don’t kiss me because you pity me,” he whispers. “If you’re going to kiss me, do it because you want me.”

 

I nod in understanding and he slowly lowers his hand. Were our positions reversed, had I just told him about my father and mother and everything that followed, I wouldn’t want him to kiss me out of pity either. I wouldn’t want his pity at all.

 

When his hand has dropped back onto his lap, I close the distance between us. Peeta whimpers slightly in the back of his throat as I thread my fingers through his hair and tug, holding us together. His hands grasp my waist, hauling me onto his lap. I nestle there as we kiss. That’s it. No roaming hands or desperation to remove clothing barriers. Just lips, noses brushed on cheeks, shaking fingers caressing skin and scalp, soft sighs as our dinner waits and the world passes by unnoticed. Unmissed.

 

We come up for air, maybe ten minutes later. I don’t know. Peeta draws in a ragged breath, his broad hand holding my jaw to keep me close to him. His eyes open slowly, a smile stretching over his mouth as I stare down into the blue depths of his soul.

 

We manage to finish our food and pack up our picnic around twilight, deciding it’s time to head back to my car and the city. As we walk, he doesn’t let go of my hand, and I don’t try to reclaim it. At the edge of a clearing in the woods, I pause, tugging Peeta’s hand to get him to stop and I grin at him in the moonlight.

 

“What?” he whispers. “Did you see something?”

 

He sounds worried, but I let go of his hand and shake my head, slowly walking into the tall grass, hands skimming over the blades. The bugs take flight around me, an entire swarm glowing softly in the night. I laugh and spin, fireflies floating in the air around me. It’s probably one of the last warm days of the season. One of the last days the fireflies will be out. Slowly, Peeta walks towards me, careful not to hurt any of the insects. He pauses in front of me as I stop spinning, a smile on his face, eyes reflecting back the luminescence of the night time creatures. My breath catches in my throat as he lifts a hand and carefully removes one from my hair, letting it perch on his finger for a moment before taking flight again. 

 

“You should wear fireflies more often. They suit you,” he says.

 

I scramble for something clever to say to him to break the tension building between us. It feels monumental, and it frightens me a little. But as we stare at one another bathed in moonlight and the glow of the fireflies, I can’t bring myself to say a word.

 

The fireflies do it for me, one of them buzzing loudly as it careens out of control and smacks into his cheek. I cover my mouth to stop my laughter as he winces.

 

“I didn’t mean literally wear you,” he says to the bugs and I take his hand again so we can keep walking.

 

We’re mostly silent on the drive back into the city, preferring to hold hands in the darkness and leave the talking for later. When we reach my doorstep, I struggle with the words to ask him in. So often in his presence, I’ve felt lacking in an area he feels so skilled in, the way he can weave words together and captivate my senses. It’s not just the words themselves, but the way he imbues each of them with a level of emotion that sometimes steals my breath away. So as we stand awkwardly on my doorstep, I wish for his gift with words.

 

“I think I’m going to get a shower,” I say. After our hike through the late burst of summer weather, I need it, but I don't want to let a door close between us, afraid it might change everything if I do. I finish unlocking my door only to toy with the keys in my hand and watch him for some sign or some help. Does the first date change everything, I wonder. But then he smiles, the same smile of burned cakes and cheesy dances at baseball games, or the rush of hurrying down the street for condoms because we can’t wait another second, and I can’t help but return it.

 

“Sounds good. You’re filthy,” he teases. Strong hands grab me and I squeal as I am tossed over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. I scoff, reaching down to smack his ass as he opens my door and steps through, grateful that he seems to know exactly what I need without my even saying it.

 

“Like you’re any cleaner,” I say. He starts the water with me still draped over his shoulders. “This is not a sexy way to carry someone.”

 

“Nope. It’s efficient,” he says.

 

“Put me down, Peeta,” I say in exasperation when he turns a little and my foot hits the bathroom wall. The space is too cramped for this.

 

“Okay,” he says, and my brain only just registers the warning in his tone the second before Peeta yanks back the shower curtain and slides me off his shoulders. Still fully clothed, straight into the cold stream of shower water.

 

“Peeta!” I scream as frigid water rushes over my face. Then warm hands encircle my waist and pull me close. I sputter and he moves my hair out of my face. When I can finally look up at him, he’s grinning and also still fully clothed. My stomach flutters as his hands return to my waist, grip the hem of my shirt. I nod to answer the question in his eyes and lift my arms so he can peel the soaked shirt from my body. It lands with a  _ squelch _ on the shower floor. Peeta’s pupils dilate as his fingers curl gently over my ribs, under my breasts. I bite my lip to hold back the moans, but my body is wracked with shivers.

 

To distract myself from the chill, I grab the hem of his shirt and lift. Leave him to get it over his head while I splay my hands on his chest and pepper it with kisses. Before I can get too involved with that, his shirt joins mine and he’s pulling me back to him, fervently kissing my lips. We sway, tongues rubbing and hands grasping as the water warms and the shower begins to fill with steam. I’m still shivering, but not from the cold. 

 

The shoes are the hard part since we need all hands to get them off and add them to the wet pile growing on the bathroom floor. We each use one hand and work together to somehow manage it, though. He shoves down on my pants and they stick to my body, stopping every few inches as we laugh into each other’s mouths and I finally release him to help, grabbing back onto his hair and resuming our kiss as I kick the last of my clothes off to the side. Now it’s just Peeta’s jeans. It’s his turn to let go this time, and we nearly lose our balance as I cling to him and he tries to pry himself out of his soaked clothes with our mouths still locked together.

 

When he’s finally got them off, his hands splay on my back, water coursing between us as we press flush together. One of us moans at the contact of skin to skin, I don’t know which one of us it is. Maybe it’s both of us. I’m plotting the logistics of shower sex, when Peeta turns his head, wrenching his lips from mine. I whine softly with the loss and grasp onto his hair, yanking slightly on it to bring him back to me.

 

“Holy shit,” he murmurs. 

 

“What?” I ask in annoyance. But Peeta’s lips curl in a smile and he tangles one of his hands with mine, removing my touch from his hair and flattening it on his chest. He’s breathing heavily, but I can still feel the thundering of his heart beneath my palm.

 

“That,” he whispers, making my lips lift in a mirroring smile. With a sigh, Peeta reaches behind me and grabs my soap. Soon, we’re both slathered in suds and laughing as we find each other’s most ticklish spots. My ribs and the sides of my kneecaps. The crease between his hips and thighs, the bottoms of his feet. Stolen kisses with water streaming over eyes, blinding us to everything but the joy locked away in this small, steamy world.

 

Peeta finishes first, and steps from the shower while I’m using conditioner.

 

“Crap,” he mutters.

 

“What is it?”

 

“There’s only one towel in here.”

 

“Just go ahead and use that one. The extras are in my bedroom closet,” I tell him, closing my eyes and tilting my head back to rinse the creamy lather from my hair.

 

“Be right back.”

 

I finish and turn off the water, peek around the curtain and find Peeta standing there with his towel wrapped around his hips, water droplets still clinging to his chest. He’s got my towel draped over his shoulder, his head bent as he pages through the thin book in his hands. No, not a book... a glossy charity calendar.

 

Shit. Shit and  _ FUCK!  _ I forgot that the damn thing was hiding in my closet all this time. Right next to my spare towels.

 

My entire body heats as he glances up at me. The laughter in his eyes does nothing to quell my embarrassment.

 

“Hand me my towel, please,” I say, stretching my arm out to him.

 

“In a second,” he says, twisting back out of my reach so I can’t snatch it off his shoulder. 

 

“Peeta, I'm getting cold,” I whine, hoping he'll take pity on me. No such luck.

 

“First tell me how long you’ve had this.”

 

“I had to confiscate it from one of my students,” I fib around the truth. It's not exactly a lie.

 

“And you brought it home? In a bookstore bag?” He smirks at me and goosebumps start forming on my wet skin, even as my face burns hot.

 

“What were you doing snooping in the bag?” I accuse instead of answering.

 

“The corner was poking out,” he says and slowly shuts the calendar to devote his attention to me. 

 

“Fine. I’ve had it a little over a month or so? I think. The cashier at the bookstore wouldn’t shut up about it so I bought one,” I say, and something flickers in his eyes. Pain? Disappointment? I don’t know, I just know that the steam has vanished and I’m humiliated and about five seconds away from shivering or screaming with no idea how I'm going to talk my way out of this. He hands over my towel and I snatch it from his grip. Setting aside the calendar, Peeta sweeps the curtain open, but offers me a smile and a hand to help me out. I take it, hoping he doesn’t notice that I’m shaking. He helps me dry off and his warm hands soothe some of my embarrassment.

 

“I’m curious now,” he says as I tuck the ends of my towel in to keep it secure. “Which month is your favorite?”

 

My head snaps back to look up at him. My stunned answer stuck under my tongue. I see it again in his eyes. Not pain, but insecurity. Hidden behind laughter. My pulse trips as I realize that Peeta might be jealous or insecure, even though we’ve spent the day kissing and confiding in one another. He just seems so put together all the time, and well, so fucking hot, that I had just assumed he’d have the unwavering confidence to go with all that, like Mr. July. But then I think of the things he told me about his past and wonder if his walls are as high and thick as mine sometimes are.

 

“Well,” I say, stepping up to him plucking absently at the spot where his towel is tucked in, “my birthday is in May.”

 

Peeta arches an eyebrow at me, skeptical. I release his towel and let it fall to the floor.

 

“Is it?”

 

“May 8th,” I tell him as I place my hands on his pectorals. “So I’m partial to that month.”

 

“So if I’d been randomly placed in November instead of May, would we even be here right now?”

 

“Yes,” I say and smile up at him. “Best part of November is the food. But you could probably give that some stiff competition.”

 

His eyebrow shoots up again at my innuendo and his shoulders shudder for a second beneath my touch as the doubt slowly dissipates from his gaze.

 

We’ve been so rushed or shrouded in darkness or facing one another every time we’ve been together, that I haven’t been given the chance to give his body more than a cursory or frontal look. Even the roaming of my hands as we’ve had sex is a poor substitute since I’m usually occupied with the rest of him at the same time. I mimic his motions from in the shower, tracing my nails over his ribs, around his nipples then back down to his navel. His muscles spasm beneath my touch as I do something I’ve wanted to do since I first saw his picture in that calendar. Down the golden trail, lower, watching his cock grow hard and rise as my heart thuds in my chest.

 

“Katniss,” he murmurs, and I look up to meet his eyes. He reaches out for me, and I evade him, maneuvering myself around to his back. He exhales through his nose in a huff, but lets me go. His hands fist at his sides as I take in his scars, fully for the first time. Puckered pink from his nape down to just above his ass. A few fingers curl around towards his ribs. His right shoulder still smooth, but his left clearly injured.

 

Reaching out, I run my hands over the surface, familiarize myself with the feel of him in concert with the sight. I want to know him by heart, so that even when we’re in complete darkness, with just a touch, I’ll know the way over his scars. He stands there breathing, tilting his head back at one point, but allowing me to memorize the lines of his past.

 

When I step back around to his front, his nostrils are flaring and his cock is erect, jutting towards me and twitching once as I grasp onto my elbows, suddenly nervous. Because it’s not the calendar or our histories of loss that link us together or makes me want him. It’s more than that. It’s him.

 

“I wanted you when you were just Mr. May. But then you were Peeta, my neighbor, and I still wanted you. Before I even knew you had these scars or brothers or survived an unimaginable fire.”

 

“Why?” he breathes, and even though I’m raw and on the brink of tears, I tell him.

 

“I think it was the way you smiled. At me and at Mags. In that picture. Knowing you hasn’t changed a thing. Everything since then has just made me want you even more.” He stares at me as I watch his pupils widen, darken, the air around us alive with sparks. And then, they ignite.

 

We are a blur of color and discarded towels. Wet hair fanned over twisted sheets and fingers gripping for solid ground, finding nothing but supple flesh and not being disappointed in the slightest. My legs embrace him as our cores align and we grind against one another, gasping at the flashes of heat and moaning our praise in haphazard kisses, too consumed to be thorough. Maybe later. Maybe next time.

 

“Peeta,” I whine. “Please.”

 

“Yes,” he gasps. Something crashes off my nightstand as he yanks on the drawer. He curses and flings a ripped condom aside as I curl my hands around his arm left holding him off of me, sinking my teeth into his bicep. Licking away the sting.

 

“Please,” I plead again.

 

“Fuck! Help me with this, Katniss,” he says in a voice crackling with need. We work together and shout as he plunges deep inside me. I dig my heels into his backside and spur him, urging him faster as his hips shove me further up the bed and closer to the tips of an inferno. Just a hint of air and I’ll explode.

 

I run my hands over his back, his neck, his straining arms, his ass, as I smile and laugh in relief at dreams turned real. His teeth tug on my earlobe and I silently will him to say it. To let me hear it and soothe my depraved soul.

 

“Fuck, fuck yes, oh fuck ye-essss,” he puffs, and it’s close. So close to what I want to hear. I dance on the edges, holding back out of hope. My grip on him slips and he loses his pace for just a second, our bodies once more slippery with sweat. Then his hips tilt and my body snaps into an arch. He shouts in triumph as he whips into me, sending me reeling. But I still catch the words.

 

“Oh god, yes. Come on my cock, Katniss! Arngh!”

 

He crashes to earth with me still fluttering and clamping down on him and my wails of exquisite pleasure reverberating off the bedroom walls. Rolling us as we both pant and moan, his hand skims over my hip. Mine over his cheek. Frantic kisses where words aren’t possible. There will be time for that later, but for now, neither one of us can move. I don’t want to. Lying here with tangled legs and pounding pulses, still throbbing folds as he slips from me.

 

“I can’t believe you acted so pure this whole time, like you didn’t know what was in that calendar. You infuriating hussy,” he teases as I catch my breath. I’m teetering on the edge of sleep now, but shiver in delight as Peeta traces the backs of his fingers up my arm to my cheeks.

 

“You’re the hussy, posing half naked and making me crazy with lust for months, putting out before our first date,” I tease back and he gasps in feigned outrage.

 

“What does that make you then?” he says, a teasing grin on his face.

 

“Positively virginal,” I say and he laughs, the sound soothing and exciting all at once. “And don’t expect a repeat of this after every date, Mr. May. I plan on leading you on a merry chase.” 

 

I tease him around my yawn. My limbs are just so heavy and I feel so good. So relaxed, despite the soreness blossoming between my legs.

 

“That’s fine. I won’t be giving up on this anytime soon. Not unless you tell me to get lost,” he whispers, the words skimming over my forehead right before he drops a soft kiss there. The kind of kiss I want to wake to.

 

“Stay with me, Peeta,” I manage to say as exhaustion pulls me under. I miss his answer, although I feel the vibrations of it through my palm resting on his chest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was never really happy with how this chapter turned out when I posted it to tumblr. While the changes I've made are small, they are there. Mostly in the dialogue. Hope you enjoyed!


	11. Quidnunc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quidnunc - One who always has to know what is going on.

**_Quidnunc -_ ** _ One who always has to know what is going on. _

* * *

  
  


I finger the dark blue velvet of the curtain and peer out into the auditorium. Most of the audience has trickled out already. A few stragglers remain, parents chatting with one another as their younger children play in the aisles and their older children interrupt every few minutes to beg for car keys, money, or the chance to just stop waiting on the dull adults to finish their conversations so they can get on with living their lives. A camera flash strobes for a second and the kids complain about the blinding light while the father mutters and glares at the camera while he fixes the settings. The typical end to a night at the school play. 

 

We still have a performance tomorrow night and the final show on Sunday afternoon, so many of the teachers and stagehands have already made their way out to meet up with parents or home for the night. I linger for a second, holding my ballet flats in my hand. They’re my go-to dress shoes but years of wear have finally caught up with them. Tonight, the soles separated from the uppers and I’m not sure I’ll be able to glue them back in place this time.

 

It’s not my destroyed shoes that’s keeping me lingering, though, but the need for a few minutes of peace after the chaos of the performance. And maybe it's also the chance to observe unnoticed the mismatched family still in the auditorium, waiting for someone. I’ve met every one of them by now, although I still sometimes have difficulty remembering which kid technically belongs with which adult, a problem compounded by the fact that whenever they’re all together, they all seem to share responsibilities for the children. Even the unmarried and childless firefighters step up to help.

 

Finnick Odair, Mr. July, carries a young boy on his shoulders and another squirming under one arm as he talks to Ashton Abernathy, Mr. October’s teenage son and Haymitch’s nephew. Castor and Dalton, Mr.’s June and March respectively, swing a giggling young girl with pigtails between them, while Pollux -- Mr. September -- carries on an animated conversation in sign with a boy around eleven or twelve. Thresh, Mr. December, kneels in the aisle and talks softly to one girl to coax her out of a fit of shyness. When he manages to instill some confidence in her, she spews out questions for the leading actress of the night, who answers with a smile. Then there’s Peeta, listening as a little girl in pigtails reads from a book. An entire rag-tag family out for a night of theater. Adorable and irresistable. My belly and heart flutter in a strange harmony.

 

Annie pauses next to me and sighs. “If he weren’t such a cocky asshole, it might be attractive,” she mutters, startling me from my observation of the family. I glance at her, ready to defend Peeta from the furious look in her eyes, until I follow her gaze and realize that it’s not Peeta who’s snared her attention but Finnick. I can’t blame her ire at him, but having gotten to know him a little better, I know that despite the plethora of t-shirts with sexual innuendos, the arrogant playboy is an act, not the real Finnick. I bite back a laugh as I imagine Annie rolling her eyes at the most recent one Finnick wore:  _ Forget the Fire Truck, Ride the Firefighter. _

 

“He’s single, you know,” I needle and Annie scoffs. 

 

“He probably can't help it. It's his natural state to play the field.” I don't disagree with her. Finnick seems too easy to get and then too easy to lose with his strings of dates who never stick around for more than a few weeks, if that. While I can't deny that he's perhaps the most outwardly sensual person I know, underneath it, he's searching for something more lasting. But I feel like Annie's interest is too shallow to keep her hanging around long enough to figure that out about Finnick and I feel oddly protective of Peeta’s family after only a month of official dating.

 

We fall silent for a moment and my cheeks heat as I feel her eyes focus on me while I try not to reveal how closely I’m watching Peeta. I shift my eyes so they don’t linger too long on any one face, but my gaze is perpetually drawn right back to Peeta.

 

“I dunno,” she says. “I think someone more stocky and maybe blond would suit my tastes.”

 

She laughs and shakes her head as mine whips around to stare at her, to decipher her meaning. “Relax, Katniss. I’m just teasing you. So how long has that little flame been burning?”

 

“Oh, um, he’s my neighbor,” I manage to say and Annie nods.

 

“Convenient,” she says with a soft smile and a nudge. “You should get home. It’s late. I'll see you tomorrow for curtain call.”

 

She leaves me speechless and uncertain as she walks off to make sure the stage crews have finished cleaning up backstage and resetting the sets for tomorrow night. I haven’t told anyone at work about Peeta and I, only mentioned in passing to Prim that I was seeing someone. She knew better than to pry after I shut her down at question number one from her, but Annie’s response has me wondering what exactly she saw. Is it written all over my face that I’ve been sleeping with Peeta?

 

I carefully school my features into indifference and leave the wings, walking down the stage steps into the auditorium.

 

“Katniss!” the two kids hanging off Finnick like he’s a jungle gym squeal in unison and fight their way free to fling themselves at me.

 

“Well hello there! Did you enjoy the play?”

 

“We loved it!” Jackson shouts and Jayden tugs on my arm to get me to kneel down.

 

“I liked the horse,” he tells me. “And my tooth is loose!” He grins and wiggles the tooth with the tip of his tongue.

 

“How did they make that one guy fall? Was he on a harness? I said he had to be but Jayden said he landed on a trampoline or padding and--”

 

“Alright, knuckle heads. Too much talking ruins the magic,” Castor says and tosses Jackson into the air. The boy squeals as he returns to his father’s embrace and Jayden grips Castor’s free hand.

 

“Uncle Pollux said we were going to get ice cream,” Jayden says and Castor shakes his head.

 

“He said we’d get ice cream tomorrow,” Castor corrects, setting Jackson down and showing his twin sons the signs.

 

“Oh, right,” Jayden says unconvincingly and Jackson elbows him.

 

“Told you it wouldn’t work.”

 

One by one, the firefighters hug me and tell me the kids were great tonight, making me wonder if they were all waiting around to talk to me. Then the group slowly trickles out the doors. At some point, Peeta takes my hand in his and squeezes, Dalton’s niece sleepily curled up on his shoulder with her book clutched in her hand. 

 

The fluttering in my middle shifts to a throbbing ache, one that feels primal and timeless, and that I ignore. But the feeling persists, a low hum in the background as Peeta frets over my stockinged but shoeless feet until I wave off his concern. Out into the cool autumn night and to Dalton’s car where Peeta helps his precious cargo into her seat. Over to my car and during the entire drive home. Once I’ve parked, Peeta hurries over to the driver side and before I can protest, he’s scooped me and my ruined shoes into his arms.

 

“I can walk,” I say testily, thrown off by this ache inside me.

 

“Do you want me to put you down?” Peeta asks with a teasing glint in his eye.

 

“Well at least this is more comfortable than the last time you carried me,” I concede as the breeze finds the openings in my coat and sends a chill through me. I snuggle closer to Peeta’s warmth, somehow still just as strong and steady despite the fact that he wears no coat. 

 

He uses his elbow to call the elevator. When it arrives, he leans back against the back wall with me still in his arms and smiles at me.

 

“What’s that look for?” he asks, his voice hushed in the small space. I shrug and try to change my expression, but I think I’ve finally figured out the source of the ache inside me as we ascend to our floor. Insatiable hunger.

 

“You can put me down now,” I whisper. Peeta carefully sets me down with my toes on top of his, my shoes still clutched in my right hand prevent me from touching him the way that I want to, so I settle for weaving the fingers of my left hand through his hair and tugging until he kisses me, softly at first with our eyes still open. My chest constricts with need and I am the one to snap, nails digging into his scalp as I pull him down further and his arms wrap around me, holding me close to him as the kiss flares out of control.

 

I hear the bell announce our arrival at the fourth floor but neither of us moves, too caught up in each other’s lips and arching bodies. The rumble of the door closing snaps Peeta out of the trance and our mouths slant awkwardly as his arm shoots out behind me to stop the door while never once breaking the kiss. We stumble through as it opens again, my free hand yanking on his tie as his hands roam over my hips, lifting my skirt small amounts. We stagger down the hallway, smashing back into my door as I finally get his tie undone, my hands dropping my shoes and grasping at buttons in a frenzy.

 

“Shouldn’t we get inside first?” he asks between kisses and I nod but keep unbuttoning his shirt. “Katniss, keys.”

 

I growl at the reminder but leave his shirt half unbuttoned to dig my keys out of my coat pocket. His lips skim over my neck and ears, his breathing harsh in the quiet of the hallway. When I finally get the door open, we peel away his clothes, leaving a trail from the door into my bedroom. In my haste to get him naked, I ignore my own clothes, and Peeta only manages to get my coat off of me before his knees hit the bed. He sits naked on the edge and pulls me between his spread knees, his hands slowing mine, pinning them at my sides.

 

“What has gotten into you?” he pants the question, his eyes glazed and his body flushed.

 

“I want you to fuck me senseless,” I tell him, wriggling in his grasp so I can strip the rest of my clothes, needing to keep emotion out of it because I don’t understand this response to him. This  _ need _ .

 

“In a minute,” he says with a smile. “First…”

 

Slowly, he stands and runs his hands up my arms, I quiver at the caress, impatient to feel the movement of our bodies in the dark. He removes one piece of my clothing at a time, each brush of his fingers on my bare skin a torment. I need the full heat of his palms grasping and clutching. Instead, each delicate touch only makes my need stronger.

 

But the look in his eyes keeps me from demanding the speed that I want. I've seen a watered down version of this look before, so many times when we sat curled on the couch in silence or quiet conversation, at a baseball game while his teammate dragged him back away from me, on one of our dates while I talked about why one painting in particular had snared my attention. When he thinks I'm not paying attention as we cook dinner side by side. I know this expression and yet the name for it is not something I want said aloud. It's too soon for that, but its effect is no less potent for me wanting to suppress the name of the thing.

 

As slow as he’s moving, my pulse thunders as rapidly. I’m sure he must see it beneath the skin of my neck. Surely he must hear it in the hush of my bedroom. Still, Peeta savors undressing me until I’m down to panties and my thigh high stockings.

 

“So fucking perfect,” he murmurs as his fingertips skim from the lace tops of my stockings up over my hips to my breasts.

 

“I’m not perfect,” I protest, my voice throaty and yet somehow vulnerable. His cock jumps in answer and he smiles, shaking his head at me.

 

“For me, you  _ are _ perfect,” he says and finally cups one of my breasts, bending to kiss the swell of flesh, slowly work his way in a spiral towards my rapidly puckering nipple. I let my head fall back and enjoy his attentions. Moaning loudly and spearing my fingers in his hair when he finally sucks my areola into his mouth. I shift my legs, feeling the slick arousal coating me, thick enough to start soaking through the satin of my panties.

 

My knees are weakening and I must sway because Peeta flattens his free hand on my back and presses into my spine so that I am arched and essentially resting on his palm. He trails wet kisses across my chest to the other side, and by the time he’s done with that breast, I am a quivering mass of need. 

 

Peeta sets me on the edge of the bed, releasing me to lean back on my palms and watch as he kisses a path down my body, until he’s kneeling between my legs and lavishing my thighs with tongue and lips.

 

“Peeta, please,” I whisper and he glances up at me, blue eyes intense and dark with need equal to mine.

 

“What do you want, Katniss?” he taunts, but his hands tug on my panties until I lift my hips enough for him to slide them off. He leaves the stockings on.

 

“I want,” I say and have to lick my parched lips and swallow heavily before I can finish my request. “Your mouth.”

 

“It’s all yours, Katniss,” he says with a quirk of his lips and one eyebrow. “Where do you want it?”

 

I lift my hips, thrusting my groin towards his face and he laughs, splaying his hands on my hips and pushing me back into the bed.

 

“Explain it to me, Katniss,” he says, his palms caressing down to the stockings and all the way to my knees before slowly returning up high. “Explain it to me like I’m one of your students and I need...extra instruction. Be explicit.”

 

My breath hitches at this, and I wonder if Peeta’s been having naughty fantasies about having sex on my desk. A teacher’s desk. I know I have, but this role play is new to me and I’m not sure how to start.

 

“Just be honest,” Peeta whispers in a much softer tone than the last one he used. It’s enough to give me the courage. I spread my legs a little wider and point to the juncture of my thighs.

 

“I want your mouth there,” I say, my voice commanding.

 

“On your pussy?” he asks, his lips puckering on the p and hissing around the last syllable.

 

“Yes,” I groan, squirming beneath his hands on my thighs, his thumbs rubbing in a slow pendulation. He grins and nuzzles my leg next to his hand. I try to move to get his mouth closer but he pulls back. 

 

“Shall I describe your pussy to you, Katniss?”

 

“Yes,” I beg again.

 

“What if I don’t? How will you punish me?” he asks.

 

I’m not sure what comes over me, what new boldness this is that sweeps through me and gives flight to the words I say to him next. “I will stand in front of my class without panties every day for a week. And you’ll know about it because instead of wearing them, I’ll leave the panties in the pocket of your uniform.”

 

“Fuck that’d be so  _ hot _ ,” Peeta says, but his mouth finally latches to my folds and I sigh in relief at the feel of his lips on me, of his warm and wet tongue drinking everything I give him. I try to hold still and watch the top of his head, listen to the sloppy sounds of suction as he works my lips with his, to pay attention to the fragmented sentences he uses to describe my taste and how much he loves pleasuring me like this, but there's a low humming in my soul demanding to be answered.

 

It’s when his fingers join the play that the ache begins to coil in my middle. Making me pant and moan. My body undulating slightly as I try to inhibit my motions, but it doesn’t matter. This feeling refuses to be contained. Peeta glances up at me and even in the faint light from the moon filtering through my curtains, the blatant passion in his eyes sends me hurtling towards the stars with a shudder and a quick burst of liquid. Peeta moans and I answer with one of my own. He laps at me until I have to push him away, too sensitive to take anymore of his tongue on me. 

 

I scoot back on the bed to make room for him, still quaking with release as he kneels low on his shins and lifts me, settling me on his lap. Our hands work together as we kiss and my eyes roll back in my head at the taste of myself on his lips. His cock parts my folds and I relax my legs so he can lower me onto him.

 

Bracing my feet behind him on the bed, I intend to help, but he wraps one arm securely around me and grips my ass with the other. Then he lifts me off of him before lowering me back down. Slow and gentle, but with our faces this close, peppering one another with kisses and heated looks, I feel more connected to him than ever before. I feel every inch of him as he slides me over him, hear every hitch of his breath and quiet moan of desire, feel them puffed in warm air over my lips, my neck, my cheek. Taste them on my tongue when we’re kissing. I see every flicker of feeling in his blue eyes that rarely stray from my face or waver in their intensity.

 

This closeness brings that same ache throbbing back to life, to new heights as I grip his hair and pant his name as it coils with each stroke of his cock into me, releases with every retreat. I squeeze my eyes shut as it washes through me, wave after wave of fluttering flames that make my toes curl into the sheets and drag a stuttering moan from deep in my throat. 

 

My back hits the cool sheets as Peeta lays on top of me, his hips still moving, our bellies slick with sweat and sliding against one another with each of his frantic thrusts. I use my hold on his hair to keep his face close to mine so I can kiss him and see it in his eyes when he shatters. He shakes with his own release, hips jerking when I dig my nails into his scalp and chest, leaving crescent marks to claim him as mine. And watching the shift in his blue eyes from desperation to satisfaction and something deeper fills my chest with warmth.

 

“Katniss, oh,” he moans, his eyes sliding shut as he revels in bliss for a moment. Slowly, he sinks into me, caressing lips and nose over my cheek as I let my legs and clenched feet relax. “I love being with you. Every last moment of it.”

 

His whispered words curl through me and I smile stupidly, returning his fervent kisses and enjoying the feel of his weight and warmth on me.

 

* * *

 

“Why is the virgin always safe in these movies? It’s so predictable,” Prim complains and I scowl at the smear of color on the flesh of my toe. Since we missed our movie date the weekend of Halloween and the next weekend as well, Prim insisted that we watch a horror movie today.

 

“Internalized, subliminal misogyny at it’s finest,” I mutter and dip a q-tip in the polish remover to fix my error and start over. I’ve never been good at this to begin with, but painting nails while balancing my phone between my shoulder and cheek is a whole new level of girly abilities that I just never mastered. But since my flats bit the dust last night, I’ll have to wear the one pair of nice heels that I own tonight, and they happen to be peep toe shoes. So not only will my feet be aching by the end of the night, but I'll be showcasing my gnarly toenails unless I get this stupid polish on.

 

“It’s such bullshit,” she says and I smile a little at her annoyance.

 

“You picked it,” I remind her and she scoffs.

 

“And I’m sure you’ll make me pay for it. I think the sun still being up ruins the ambiance. We should’ve tried this at night.”

 

“I’ve got the school play,” I remind her. 

 

“I know, I’m just being a pain,” Prim teases as movement across the room catches my eye. I smile at sleep disheveled Peeta as he emerges from our bedroom, rakes a hand through his hair and smiles back at me with still bleary eyes. Without a word of interruption, he sits on the couch next to me. While Prim continues to chat about the predictability of the plotlines and compares it to the monotony of certain wards at the clinic, Peeta snatches the bottle of polish from my hands and tugs my foot into his lap, propping it on his thigh.

 

His head bent over my foot, Peeta’s face takes on a look of intense concentration, the one it usually adopts when he's sketching. I watch his hands as he swipes the deep red lacquer precisely over my toenail. When all five are covered, he blows gently to dry them a little and then motions for me to give him my other foot. He repeats the process and I melt into the couch cushions. It’s oddly relaxing being pampered like this.

 

“Katniss?” Prim asks and I shake myself free from the trance Peeta’s attention has placed me in. “I asked if it’s just gonna be you, me, and Mom for Thanksgiving.”

 

Thanksgiving. It’s in a few weeks and I’m still a little apprehensive about it. “Probably.”

 

“Thought I’d ask, but I guess Gale will be back here with his family,” Prim says. The mention of Gale surprises me, although I suppose it shouldn't. He lives here in the city, too, although we haven’t seen much of one another in the past few weeks. I should probably call him today and see if he wants to go out to the woods again here soon.

 

“What about the guy you've been seeing? Or is it still too soon for meeting the fam?”

 

“I don't know,” I say as my cheeks heat and I glance nervously at Peeta. He continues painting my toes, unaware that he's become the topic of discussion. I have no idea if he's got plans with the other firefighters or if he'd even want to meet my family.

 

“Oh my gosh is it really that serious?” Prim asks, excitement in her voice.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean that usually you'd shut that idea down fast enough to make my head spin. So there's a chance of my actually meeting this one?”

 

“Maybe,” I admit reluctantly.

 

“Ooooooo, I'm telling Mom that you're in loooooove,” Prim sing songs and I twitch nervously and press the phone more tightly to my ear. Peeta scowls playfully at me and tugs on my foot, letting me know that my sudden movements are not appreciated before he returns to his task.

 

“Stop it, you brat,” I say to my sister. Thankfully, she takes the hint to drop it.

 

While Prim and I chat, the movie plays on, and Peeta adds a second coat to my toes. When he’s done, he lounges back against the arm of the couch, fingers absently rubbing the soles of my feet while he silently watches the terror on screen as well.

 

When the movie ends and I've hung up with Prim, he checks the polish on my toes. “Looks like it’s mostly dry. Anything you want to do before we grab lunch?”

 

“Yes, there is,” I say, and before he can ask me what, I yank on his shirt and lay back until he settles between my thighs.

 

“Don’t make all my hard work be in vain,” he teases as he slides my shorts and panties aside enough to finger me. “Let's see if we can make your toes curl without causing damage. Think you're up to the challenge, Everdeen?”

 

I wrap my legs around him and wriggle my toes. “More than you know, Mr. May.”

 

Only the real danger turns out not to be protecting my toes but trying not to snort in laughter as Peeta cracks foot fetish jokes while he's balls deep and I'm hanging off the edge of a toe-numbing orgasm while he pauses to make sure my polish is still good then tickles my arches as I come apart, laughing in ecstasy.

 

* * *

 

An annoyingly shrill ringing pulls me from my sleep. I grumble my complaints and try to burrow further into Peeta’s warmth, but he’s rolling away from me.

 

“‘Ello?” he mumbles when the racket finally stops. He makes a few more noises, but he’s standing from my bed and tugging his shorts back on. I try to rub sleep from my eyes and sit up, but it’s a struggle I lose and flop back onto the bed. “Be there in five minutes.”

 

“Where are you going?” I protest when he ends the call. He gathers his clothes into his arms and leans over me.

 

“Into work. They need another crew for a fire downtown,” he says and kisses me. “I’m sorry; I probably won’t make it to the play tonight.”

 

“It’s okay,” I mumble and grab his shirt to steal another kiss before he slips away. 

 

“Thanks for understanding,” he murmurs and then heads out the door. A minute later, I hear him shutting his own apartment door and leaving the building. I try for a few minutes to get some sleep, but the bed feels so empty without him in it and the sun’s bright light fills the room with the faded warmth of late autumn afternoons. I should get up and eat something anyways, and my growling stomach agrees.

 

After fixing myself a grilled ham and cheese sandwich and tossing together a small salad with what I’ve got in my fridge, I sit at the table. I have to nudge aside Peeta’s sketchbook and a stack of his pencils, glancing briefly and smiling at his current work. It’s a picture of a few of his fellow firefighters, hard at work, although you wouldn’t guess that based on the smiles on their faces. Their expressions of joy and togetherness defy the sweat and soot that mars their features.

 

I chew and swallow and repeat, and despite the fact that my meal is delicious, I find myself restless and shifty. The quiet of the apartment sinks into my bones and whispers of fear. I stand abruptly and turn on some music, if only so I don’t hear my own vague thoughts.

 

Eventually, I shower and dress for the play, heading in early if only to get out of the stifling silence of my apartment. The wind sweeps through the channels created in the spaces between towering buildings. Litter dances forth from the gutters and scatters, eerily illuminated in the orange streetlights. It howls even above the sounds of my engine and the surrounding traffic, pushing my car and making me grip the steering wheel. It’s an awful night to be out of doors and I suddenly wish that instead of driving alone to the school play, I was spending it curled up on the couch with Peeta and a couple mugs of hot cocoa.

 

* * *

 

The chaos of the theater distracts me from my misgivings. They’re a vague sort of fear that I can’t pinpoint so I channel my energy and focus into getting the kids’ vocal chords warmed up, practicing with the small choir for a few minutes, assisting with scene and costume changes, making sure the actors hit their marks on time. Other than a prop being set in the wrong spot, the performance goes well. Even then, the young actress doesn’t miss her stride, grabbing a vase filled with silk flowers and tossing the contents aside before threatening her stage husband with it rather than the rubber knife that should have been in place for her.

 

As I leave the school for the night, I check my phone, surprised to see nothing from Peeta. While I know he’s had to respond to a few real fires on his shifts, this is the first he’s been called in while technically off duty. Since I don’t know what that means, I try not to worry about it, but the choice to not worry only seems to heighten my anxiety. The howling wind that still hasn’t died down as I drive home adds to the feelings of unease.

 

When I get back to the apartment building, I call his phone, just to be certain, but of course, it goes straight to his voicemail. At first, I decide that this is ridiculous and settle on the couch with a book. My mother texts me to verify some detail about Thanksgiving. After I answer and chat with her about a few other things, I can’t get back into my book and turn on the TV to mindlessly channel surf for a little bit before I go to bed.

 

It’s a mistake.

 

Every local news channel is broadcasting the same story. Harried reporters with their hair windblown hold clipboards beside their face or grip hoods to keep them in place in a futile effort to block the wind which fills the microphones with its low scratching tones and drowns out the sounds of their voices so that I can only catch fragments. 

 

Behind them, red and blue lights dance in the night in a frightening rhythm with the twisting and curling fingers of flames that rise from the massive building complex. Violent, deadly, and mesmerizing.

 

_...spreading to neighboring… _

 

_...PFD wor... build a fire break… _

 

_...attempts to … the blaze… _

 

_...six stations have responded… _

 

_ ….trapped… _

 

_ ….weather not cooperating... _

 

It takes me five channels and half an hour of impatient flipping between them before I finally catch one of the anchors in the studio repeating the information given.

 

“We apologize for the sound quality at this time. If we’re understanding Cressida correctly here, it appears that the wind has exacerbated the situation and in an attempt to contain the blaze and keep it from spreading to neighboring buildings, PFD is hard at work building a fire break and wetting the buildings down. However, their efforts are split as we’ve received reports that three firefighters who were inside evacuating Snow Industry employees are now trapped behind a fallen beam of some kind.

 

“The firefighters outside the building have radio contact with those inside for now, but as you can imagine, time is critical--”

 

I mute the damn thing and switch to another station, frantically searching the background for any sign of Peeta. I spot several firefighters conferring near one of the massive PFD trucks and read what names I can, the reflective letters printed on the backs of their jackets glowing in the bright spotlights of the news vans. I catch a few that I recognize -- Mason, Dalton, Gloss. I even spot a truck with the number 12 emblazoned in gold over the PFD crest, but no Mellark. He’s there somewhere, I know that he is, but as the minutes tick by with no sign of him, helplessness threatens to overwhelm me.

 

Eventually, I must fall asleep on the couch because I wake with itching eyes and the same story still playing on the screen. Tears burn me and I unmute the television just long enough to hear that they’ve gotten the fire under control in one section of the complex, but the fire now threatens a building with highly flammable materials inside. Still no luck with retrieving the trapped firefighters and now their oxygen supply is at risk of running out.

 

I drift between nightmares, unable to discern memory from present. I am waiting at the mines for word of my father, my mother already a distant shell of her former self, as if she somehow knew the man she loved had left this world, blown to pieces. Then I am staring into the fire, it’s heat intense on my face, every fiber of my being willing Peeta to survive it, clinging to the insane and illogical belief that since he survived it before, he’s somehow impervious to it now. I try to reach across the city blocks, to send him thoughts of cool evenings on rooftops and chilled lips kisses, fresh air gasps to get him through. And I wonder how my mother knew that my father was dead. Does that kind of love link your souls together in a way that defies explanation? Is this stone sinking in my gut and the numbness in my limbs a sign that Peeta’s in peril? Already gone? Or am I letting my imagination run wild enough to make mountains of air?

 

I wander into the hallway, startling when Rowdy barks inside Mags’ apartment and then seems to catch my scent. The barks turn to whines and scratches on the door. I hug myself and lean against my door. It was only a day ago that Peeta and I stood right here, frantically kissing and unable to keep from undressing each other before we made it to the privacy of my apartment.

 

Waiting in the hallway does me no good, so I wipe my nose and return to my couch. On impulse, I call the non-emergency number Peeta gave me for his station, but no one answers. An awful thought occurs to me then. Would anyone tell me if something happened to him? Would they even think to do that? Or will I sit here waiting, like Rowdy does now, day after day, clinging to hope that he’ll return? A void opens up in front of me and to keep from plunging head first into it, I force myself to stand, turn off the TV, and do something productive. I take a shower, grade papers and finalize lesson plans for the rest of the semester. I try to sleep but there is no relief in dreams where my father and Peeta burn side by side.

 

Somewhere in the midst of a nightmare, a dog barks and I drag myself to the surface. Only lucid enough to recognize the sound as belonging to Rowdy, I stumble to the door and fling it open.

 

For a moment, I believe that I must be looking at a ghost, exhaustion and grief making my eyes burn unbearably. He’s kneeling in front of Mags’ apartment, his keys and black bag tossed on the ground as Rowdy paws at him and licks his face. Sweat darkens his hair, leaving it gnarled and matted to his head, as though he came straight home and didn’t bother to shower before leaving the station.

 

“Hey,” he manages to greet me between slobber filled kisses. “I didn’t wake you, did I? He gets upset if I don’t greet him when I get back.”

 

I glance back at the late morning sunlight streaming in through the windows to my apartment and cross my arms over my chest. “You greet the dog first?”

 

“He’s more likely to annoy the neighbors with his barking,” Peeta says as he stands slowly, bracing one hand on his thigh and wavering a little. He must be exhausted.

 

“I am the neighbors,” I gripe, but Peeta doesn’t seem to hear the tense notes in my voice. He snaps his fingers and points through Mags’ door. Rowdy obediently goes with wagging tail, having gotten the attention he desired. Peeta shuts and locks the door with the key Mags gave him so that he could help look after her, take Rowdy whenever needed, and apparently share in dog smooches at all hours of the night instead of telling his girlfriend that he’s safe and not dead.

 

Peeta then grabs his bag and walks over to me. “I’d hug you but I’m pretty sure the stench isn’t something you want to experience.”

 

I wrinkle my nose as he gets closer and I catch a whiff of rank sweat and something more metallic along with the undeniable, acrid smell of smoke, an olfactory reminder of the danger he was in last night and into this morning. He gazes down at me, his smile faltering the longer we stand there unmoving. He fiddles with the strap of his bag and lifts a hand to run through his hair but seems to think better of it.

 

“Should I take a shower in my place?” he asks. I can hear the uncertainty in his voice and my better judgment wars with my desires before desire finally wins and I open the door. Nothing happened to him. He's fine. All my worrying and the nightmares amounted to nothing. He waits awkwardly by the door until I start the shower water and sit on the toilet while he peels off each filthy piece of his uniform. While he tests the water, I surreptitiously scan his body for new burn scars, biting my lip when I find none. I don’t know what I was expecting. It’s not like he ran into the fire unprotected.

 

“Care to join me?” he asks and I shrug, then strip naked. Usually he would watch, but today he climbs into the shower first. By the time I join him, he’s already scrubbed his hair, his head tipped back into the stream and hands working the suds out to wash down the drain. We’re silent as we clean ourselves, barely touching as we complete the task. Several times, Peeta opens his mouth, looks as though he wants to say something but then he shakes his head and clamps his lips together.

 

When we’re dried and dressed in clean clothes, he climbs beneath my sheets and closes his eyes with a sigh. Since I barely slept last night, I slide in beside him. We’re both out in seconds, but the nightmares don’t leave me alone. I keep waking, expecting him to be gone. And somewhere in the midst of sleep, I tell myself that I should just get used to that. To the knowledge that I will lose him.

 

Eventually, Peeta must feel rested enough because I wake to his kisses on the back of my neck and his hands roaming beneath my shirt. I lay there and let him touch me, detached from the slickness coating my panties. I help him remove the shirt I wear, the one that ironically says  _ Feel Safe at Night...Sleep with a Firefighter _ . I confiscated it from him after our first date. My body arches into his mouth on my back but it’s as though I’m standing in the night, gripping onto a barricade and watching the events unfurl, separated from my body as he peels away my shorts and lifts my leg just enough while I grip his cock and guide him to me.

 

He moans my name as he enters me. I hold his hand low on my body as he spoons me and fucks me at the same time. And while I feel the build and then the intense release of pressure, I don’t associate it with reality. Not until we’ve caught our breaths and Peeta combs his fingers through my hair, his lips gentle on my neck, my ears, my cheeks, and his semen leaking from inside of me.

 

“I love you, Katniss,” he murmurs sleepily. And I wish he hadn’t said it.

 

* * *

 

 

“Good afternoon,” Peeta says cheerfully as I walk through the front door. He looks clean and mostly rested while I am still drained. “Made you some early dinner.”

 

I stare at the food as it steams on the plates and Peeta pulls out a chair for me with half a smile. “You didn’t have to--”

 

“I wanted to. I’m just sorry I crashed so hard that I missed the last show,” he says and jiggles the chair a little in a clear invitation to sit and eat. I flop in the chair because I am hungry. I’ve barely eaten since my dinner yesterday, too wrapped in worry about him and then waking with barely enough time to dress and race to the school in time for curtain call. Peeta slept through my mad dash so I didn’t bother waking him. He must not have slept too long, though, since purple bags still linger beneath his eyes.

 

“You think you can get by with food bribes?” I mutter as I cut through the creamy pasta with my fork.

 

“I like to think of it as payment for the stress and shitty sleep schedules. I never really cared for sleeping at the station but the past few months have made it even more of a challenge. I miss sleeping with you those nights. Plus it’s not fair to you for me to be stomping in and out at all hours.”

 

My fork scrapes across the plate as I glance up and the stone that’s been sitting in my gut since last night claims my attention again. He still hasn’t told me a thing about the fire last night. I don’t know if he was one of the three who got trapped. I still don’t even know if they got out or if they’re dead. Maybe he’s grieving the loss of friends and hiding it by not talking to me about it. Or maybe he doesn’t believe I can handle the stress of his job and worrying about him.

 

“Anyways, the food’s not  _ that  _ great. I had to improvise with what ingredients we had,” he says with a smile, but there’s something like worry in his eyes and his comment strikes a fuse in me. Improvisation is my primary cooking technique, something I learned when my mother was lost in grief and left her children to fend for themselves. I had to make do with what I had, but it wasn’t a joke then and I can’t take it as one now.

 

“I’m sorry my culinary skills leave something to be desired,” I snarl and Peeta recoils a little.

 

“That’s not what I meant,” he whispers. I search about for something else to be angry at and keep tearing at my food when I find nothing. After a tense silence, Peeta gives it to me. “I know your mom and Prim are coming for Thanksgiving. We’re working the soup kitchen that day and I was wondering if the three of you wanted to lend a hand or--.”

 

“Right because nothing says the holidays like publicity stunts,” I say and shovel more food in my mouth so I don’t have to look at him. I can’t pinpoint the source of my anger but I don’t try to stop it either. As I left for the play, I vaguely noticed the neglect of my apartment. Dishes in the sink, clutter in the living room, a trail of dirty clothes that never got placed in the hamper. Shades of my childhood brought all the old fears and resentments to the surface.

 

“Okay,” he says softly. “Never mind then, I guess I’ll just join you afterwards.”

 

“Who says you’re even invited?” I say as I drop my hands so my fork clatters on the plate. Peeta stares at me, wide eyed until his phone dings with a text message. He ignores it, but I can’t handle the hurt in his eyes, so I pick up his phone and glance at the text message from his chief, reminding him that he’s on shift tonight.

 

“You just finished an unscheduled shift,” I say, my voice dull as I toss the phone in his direction.

 

“Yeah, but I’ve been scheduled for this shift for days.”

 

“Can’t they find someone else?”

 

“My whole crew was at that fire. We’re all exhausted, but that doesn’t change the shift schedule.”

 

“Maybe it should,” I mutter. “Call in sick.”

 

“I’ll be fine. I’ll sleep in between calls,” Peeta says carefully. 

 

“I’m not hungry anymore,” I say and stand abruptly, but my hand accidentally sends his sketchbook fluttering then crashing to the ground, the pencils clank and scatter, rolling under the table while I turn back to the kitchen to dump my plate in the sink. Which is when I notice that he must’ve washed dishes while I was gone because it’s empty. The small act of kindness pokes my ire further, as though it’s a statement on the useless wreck I became overnight. All because of him. 

 

“Are you okay, Katniss?”

 

The simple question infuriates me. “I’m tired of your shit cluttering up my apartment.”

 

Face wrinkled in confusion, Peeta bends over to pick up the sketchbook and pencils. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to clean up after myself a little more. I didn’t realize it upset you this much.”

 

“Or you could not leave things here,” I say. “I’m not some kind of Suzie Housekeeper here to clean up your socks and make your meals for you.”

 

“I never once expected you to be,” Peeta says and I can tell that he’s getting angry too.

 

“Maybe it’s my grocery shopping skills you’ve got a problem with then. I’m sure that girl last week would be happy to keep your pantry stocked,” I snarl.

 

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?” he asks.

 

“There’s no need to swear at me,” I hiss and stomp towards the bedroom. His phone starts ringing then and I wave towards it. “Go on, then. Run off to play hero and never mind the shit you leave in your wake.”

 

“Katniss, I don’t understand what’s going on,” he says, silencing the ringtone I know he has assigned to his chief and tossing aside his phone. His eyes are exhausted and red but that fact only angers me further. 

 

“It’s called a fight, Peeta,” I snap.

 

“I can see that. I just don’t know what it’s about.”

 

“It’s about your things covering my space!”

 

“I’ll take them out if it bothers you that much!”

 

“And that girl last--”

 

“What girl?” he yells, and for a moment I cower because I’ve never seen Peeta lose his temper before.

 

“The one who begged you to take a picture with you while we were on a date, Peeta,” I say and he runs his hands through his hair.

 

“Are we seriously fighting over that? It didn’t seem to bother you this last week!” 

 

I bite back a retort because I know I have no grounds where that girl is concerned. Peeta had politely declined her request and held my hand as we’d walked away. When we’d gotten back here, I’d pounced on him, riding him until we’d both come undone and collapsed, naked, spent, and disheveled from our sex.

 

“Well I’m just not sure how I’m supposed to introduce you to my mother and my baby sister when half of Panem has naked pictures of you on their walls and you're the star in their masturbatory fantasies.”

 

“Jesus. If you didn’t want me to meet your family yet, then just say that, Katniss. You don’t have to pick a fight.”

 

“You assumed that I would want you to meet them!”

 

“I’m sorry! We've been talking menus and sleeping arrangements the past few days and I thought we...” he shouts back, but there’s no bite to it as his words trail off. We stand there, breathing hard.

 

“Is this about what I said this morning?” he whispers and I shiver. I never said it back to him. I cross my arms and scowl at the floor, willing him to leave this alone. I am picked raw and left open to the burning winds. His phone rings again and I squeeze my eyes shut while he ignores it and the sound drives a wedge between us that he will probably never understand. 

 

“Katniss? Do you even want me around anymore?”

 

“I think that’s pretty obvious,” I whisper and shake my head to rid it of the sound of pain in his voice. I am still shaking it when two doors slam between us. First mine. Then his. At least I can’t hear his phone ringing anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read literally anything that I've written, then you had to know this one was coming. So don't yell at me with any of that "angst out of nowhere" stuff...at least don't yell too loudly. I have sensitive ears. Anywho, this is an Everlark HEA, so hang in there with me. The ride will be mild compared to some of the others I've subjected ya'll to. Also, I won't make you wait too long. Next chapter should be up by Friday. As always, comments welcome. <3 KDNFB


	12. Hiraeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hiraeth: a homesickness for a home to which you can't return, or never was

**Hiraeth:** a homesickness for a home to which you can't return, or never was

 

* * *

 

 

“Elbow down and chin up, Little Duck.” I tilt my head back and absorb the imaginary rays of the sun. “Now lead your target. If you shoot towards where it is now, it won’t be there when the arrow gets there. You’ll miss every time.”

 

My own girlish giggle fills my ear as my father's laugh echoes in my memory. He had gray eyes just like mine, only his were soft and gentle. Rain clouds bringing life and sustenance, laughing as I jumped into puddles, the cool waters splashing inside my galoshes. My smile fades as I remember that he's dead and gone.

 

I open my eyes and the humming of the fridge in the corner silences my father’s laughter. The harsh fluorescents banish the warmth of the sun. I pick at my lunch in dissatisfaction. Right now, I'd rather be anywhere else but here in Panem. I shift aside my journal with my messy notes that I'll type up for parent-teacher conferences next week and stare down at the application.  _ Panem Rural School Districts - Seam and Hilltops Region. _

 

I'd have to teach two subjects if I went. Science and math. It would mean a pay cut for the first year at least, maybe longer. But I'd be back home. And I’d be teaching kids who are destined to work and die in the mines unless they find a way out, which means there would be more of an opportunity for me to make a real difference as a teacher. Isn’t that why I chose this profession in the first place? My fingers flick the corners of the page and I try to make a decision.

 

As someone enters the lounge, I shift the journal back to cover the application and stare at my notes unseeing, stuff a bite of my leftover chicken into my mouth so I don't have to carry on a conversation.

 

My mother would be happy to have me back in the Seam. I think. She wouldn’t be as lonely then. Sometimes I wonder why she’s stayed there so long, in a place rife with so many memories that can only bring her pain. It’s a wonder she hasn’t slipped back into depression and alcoholism in the past few years. With Prim moved on to university, there’s nothing to stop my mother from relapsing, as if our presence was ever enough.

 

The intruder pours himself a cup of coffee and turns around to stare at me. I keep my eyes downcast and stuff more food in my already full mouth. He coughs and I ignore it, tapping a finger on a line of my notes and hoping he gets the hint. Lately, too many people have wanted to talk to me when all I want is to be left alone. It's better that way.

 

“Staring at the notes isn't going to make Marshall Perkins anymore of a brainiac. He's just not built for it, sweetheart.”

 

I glare up at Haymitch who whistles in response and holds up one hand.

 

“Christ, I surrender. Thom wasn't kidding when he said he thought you might be having personal issues.”

 

“So what are you? The appointed mentor sent to get me back on track?”

 

“I'm just here for the coffee,” he says and lifts the mug to me in a mock toast. I flip the page in my journal and stare at more words. Haymitch makes a strange noise of dismissal and then shuffles to the door. Heat fills my cheeks in anticipation of the return of my dubious privacy. I knew I should've just eaten in my classroom rather than braving the teachers’ lounge.

 

“But if I were sent on some kind of intervention to help you, I'd say you need a vacation, sweetheart. Even your students are complaining that you're about as lively and charming as a dead slug these days. Whatever it is that's got under your skin, you need to get over it before you make the entire school miserable.”

 

My anger flares at this, as though I am somehow responsible for the mood of the school. And also at the reminder of exactly what, or rather whom, has rooted in my skin. 

 

“I can make it to Thanksgiving break. Then I’ll have a few days to recharge,” I mutter and Haymitch says something under his breath that I don’t catch other than what I think might be the word  _ panties _ . The last thing I want associated with Haymitch is underwear, so I try to focus on my notes.

 

It’s no good, though. Haymitch’s words have me thinking about him again. Peeta.

 

Ever since our fight, we've been avoiding one another. At least, I've been avoiding him. The handful of times we have crossed paths, he nods at me in acknowledgment but otherwise, I've seen glaciers with more warmth than him.

 

Obviously I’m not getting any work done here so I pack up my things and return to my classroom where I spend the afternoon on autopilot. During my last class, though, I notice for the first time how subdued Rue seems. It’s not like her to silently work on labs with no smile or chatting with Sasha nor even any humming. Maybe Haymitch is right, although I don’t see how I could have such an effect on people. Maybe Rue is simply having a rough day. I manage to snare her attention before she leaves for the day and ask her if everything is alright.

 

“Fine, I guess,” she says with a shrug then glances towards the hallway for a second before leaning over my desk to whisper to me. “I was actually gonna ask you the same thing, Miss Everdeen. You’ve been a little less cheerful the past couple days.”

 

“Thank you for your concern, Rue,” I say as I swallow back pain. “I’ll be fine. Just a little overworked I think. A few days off and I should be back to normal.”

 

I try to smile at her but I can tell she doesn’t believe me. Once she’s left, I grip my hands on top of my desk and listen to the sounds of the hallways until they’ve cleared out, afraid that if I stand to shut the door, even that slight movement will break me. When I feel that it might be safe, I drop my head to my arms on top of my desk and take deep breaths. One good cry should do it, right? Then I can move on from this ridiculous hang up I have on my neighbor. That’s how I’m going to think of him from now on. My neighbor. Not Peeta. Not my boyfriend. Not even Mr. May.

 

But no tears come to soothe the hurt in my chest. I growl in frustration.

 

“Should I come back later?” Annie asks and I whip myself upright as she shuts the door behind her. “Long couple weeks, huh?”

 

“Is it tatooed on my forehead?”

 

“Might as well be. Listen, I’m sure you’ve got family and a hot boyfriend taking care of you, but I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

 

“Fine,” I say automatically and Annie shakes her head with a faint smile.

 

“No you’re not. No one who says they’re ‘fine’ like that is ever really ‘fine.’” She grabs a chair from one of the student desks and perches on it in front of me. “You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to. I’ll ask something simple instead. Any big plans for the holiday?”

 

“My mother and sister will be in town,” I tell her, because that at least is easy. Then because I should be polite to Annie after all we’ve been through together this semester, “What about you?”

 

“Oh nothing extravagant. Microwave dinner and maybe a bubble bath.”

 

I’m not sure what to say to that. I’d always just assumed that Annie had family or someone to spend her free time with. She moves on to talk about work and asks me a few questions to keep the conversation flowing but my mind can’t get past the thought that Annie will be alone for Thanksgiving. When she stands to leave, I blurt out an invitation.

 

“You wouldn’t want to spend Thanksgiving with me and my family, would you?”

 

“Thanks, Katniss. Really it’s very nice of you. But I don’t want to impose.” The sharp flint of determination in her eyes tells me that there’s more to this than not wanting to impose. Were I in Annie’s shoes, I’d probably think the invite was extended out of pity. I guess in a way it was, but I suddenly feel the need to have her there with me.

 

“Oh no imposition at all,” I assure her. “I picked up this massive turkey at the grocery store because I procrastinated buying it and a 14 pound bird was the smallest I could find.”

 

“Jeez,” Annie says but her smile and eyes warm a little. “That’s a lot of turkey.”

 

“With only three people to eat it. I need as many extra mouths as I can get,” I say and Annie laughs. “Seriously, though, you should come.”

 

I scribble down my address and phone number and hand it to Annie with what I hope is a genuine smile. She hesitates but takes the paper.

 

“Why’d you put off buying the turkey?” she asks and I flush bright red. I make a snap decision to only tell her part of the truth.

 

“My mother and I have some trust issues. I’m trying to be better but sometimes I still get angry with her,” I admit. “So you’ll get the full Thanksgiving experience complete with weird family drama and awkward silences.”

 

Annie laughs again and pockets my information. “Thanks, Katniss. I think it sounds wonderful. See you on Monday?”

 

“See you on Monday,” I agree and pack my things once she’s gone.

 

* * *

 

 

I take longer than I usually would plucking the feathers from the goose I shot, watching the feathers float onto the growing pile before gripping the next handful. Beside me, Gale cleans his bow and stares off into the trees at a slight sound in the distance. We’ve barely spoken since he picked me up outside my apartment building, but I like it this way. We never needed words while we were out here in the woods, working almost as one being while we hunted. Maybe it’s a product of years of learning together, growing together. It’s simple here, and for a moment, I think I’d like to just stay like this.

 

“If I’d known I was gonna get a goose, I wouldn’t have bought that turkey from the store last week,” I say, thinking of all the poultry I’ll have in my freezer. “You need a 14 pound bird for Thanksgiving?”

 

“Wouldn’t hurt,” Gale says. “I’ll get you one of Ma’s pecan pies.”

 

“You don’t have to do that,” I say automatically. Gale sets aside his bow and switches to cleaning knives.

 

“I know it’s not much in exchange for a big ol’ bird--”

 

“That’s not what I meant,” I cut Gale off because this talk of even trades bothers me for some reason, although it’s sort of how we’ve always worked. Even trades. Tit for tat. He helped me with snares, I taught him bow hunting after my father died. The exchange of birthday dinners. We don’t call on one another unless we need something. Like me calling him for a day out in the woods to clear my head.

 

But for some reason, the idea that our friendship only works if we’re filling a need bothers me and I can’t explain why. Did we become friends because we had to or because we wanted to?

 

“Okay, Katniss,” he says dismissively. We work in silence for a little while and then he makes a disgruntled noise in his throat. “Pretty sure Ma already bought a turkey anyways but I’ll ask her.”

 

“Thanks,” I say. When I’m almost done with the the goose feathers, Gale stands and looks down at me. I can feel his eyes searching for something but I remain focused on my task.

 

“We carpooling out to Seam like we usually do?” he asks and I shake my head.

 

“Mom and Prim are coming here.”

 

“Oh. Well it’s probably better that way,” he says and I lower the goose on my lap to scowl at him.

 

“Why?” I demand, uncertain about this anger boiling in me as he shrugs.

 

“Sometimes it feels like your mind’s not at home anymore. I just wish you’d told me sooner.”

 

“I’ve been busy with work,” I say.

 

“Yeah, and falling all over some guy,” he mutters, but I hear it anyways.

 

“Well you don’t have to worry about that anymore. He’s out of the picture,” I snap and stuff the plucked goose carcass, wrapped in protective covering, into my game bag. I stay bent over, arranging things so that he can’t see the tears filling up my eyes.

 

When I stand upright, Gale’s staring at me with an unreadable expression on his face. He shakes his head and motions back in the direction of the dirt lot on the edge of the forest where we left his truck. He moves so silently that sometimes he’ll fall out of my vision and I’m so lost in my thoughts that when he reenters my field of view, his sudden appearance startles me.

 

“I’m thinking about transferring to Seam High School,” I tell him at one point. He barely breaks his stride as we continue walking. “I think I could make more of a difference there.”

 

“Maybe,” he says and I bite back an exasperated sigh.

 

“You don’t think I could?” I snap and he shakes his head.

 

“I think you could do plenty of good. I just don’t understand why you’d want to move back there. I’m working on getting Ma and the kids moved out here, closer to the city. District 3’s high school has a really great science department, no offense to present company,” he says with a smile that transforms his face. “Rory wants to be an engineer. Vick’s got a history bug up his nose and we both know Seam’s not the place for either of them to make something of themselves. And who knows what Posy’s capable of yet. If I can, I want to give them the best start possible.”

 

I look away from Gale and stare at the foliage beneath my feet as we walk. Once he left Seam, Gale worked back-breaking jobs and long shifts, sending most of the money back home and only keeping enough for himself to live and save up a little. Once he had enough, he started night classes at one of Panem’s smaller community colleges. It wasn’t until he showed an aptitude for engineering that he was finally able to get a better paying internship job, although he still sometimes works construction jobs when money is tight. He’s getting close to his bachelor’s and it isn’t surprising to me at all that he’s starting to think about his much younger brothers and sister.

 

“You’ve seen the government housing downtown, Katniss. You know there are kids here who need you to be a great teacher just as much as they do back home. So the real question is, what’s left for you back there? Your mother?”

 

“I just don’t think I’m made for city living,” I argue and he shakes his head at me.

 

“I’m not sure any of us really are, but you seemed to be enjoying your job up until recently. What changed? What are you running away from?”

 

“Maybe I just miss home,” I snap instead of telling him the truth. Is that what my best friend thinks of me? That I must be running from my fears? What does that say about the kind of person I am? 

 

“Believe me, Katniss, I’ve been back more than you have the past few years. Whatever home you thought we had back there, it’s gone. It died with our fathers. You’ll be miserable back there.”

 

“Oh and I could be happy here?” I say and then shake my head at my angry tone. “I don’t want to fight with you, Gale.”

 

We’ve reached his truck and load up our gear, both of us silent and me fuming a little bit. His words about how long I’ve been gone from home hit hard and carry the force of guilt behind them. I kick a rock while I wait for him to unlock the cab but he stands in front of me. When I tilt my head back to ask him what he’s doing, his hands cup my cheeks and my mouth parts in surprise. Then his lips are on mine and my hands curl into fists in my pockets.

 

He lifts his head, the warmth of his lips still lingering on mine as we stare at one another. I’ve always liked the fact that my best friend's eyes were the same color as mine, but his turn flinty the longer we remain silent.

 

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

 

“I don’t know,” I whisper and Gale drops his hands.

 

“I thought so, but I had to try. At least once,” he says and then walks to the other side of the truck.

 

I wait for the loud click that signals he’s unlocked the doors and climb up into the cab, trying to figure out how I feel about him kissing me. It doesn’t feel fair to compare the kiss to the many that I’ve shared with Peeta. This kiss was hasty and unexpected, and yet comparing them is exactly what I find myself doing. 

 

As soon as he stops in front of my building, I climb out of the truck. Gale doesn’t even bother helping me get my things from the bed, and drives away as I walk through the front door. I slog up the stairs, my feet heavy in my boots, my bag with the goose thumping against my leg. 

 

At my door, I pause, listening for any sounds that might tell me if Peeta’s at home. I should go inside and hide behind my door. I’m not ready to face him, even less so after that kiss from Gale. I put my things away, placing the goose in the freezer, and take a shower. Remaining in the steam longer than usual does little to help clear my mind.

 

When I get out, my phone is pinging with a text message alert. For an instant, my heart soars and then I see the name on the screen and it drops back to the pit of my stomach where it’s spent the past few weeks.

 

_ Gale: I don’t regret the kiss. Only that I waited so long to do it. Maybe if I hadn’t waited, you wouldn't have been thinking of him while I was kissing you. _

 

I toss aside my phone in disgust. And I’m not exactly sure who I’m disgusted with or why.

 

* * *

 

There’s fire all around me, collapsing from the ceiling, shooting up from the floor and yet it doesn’t touch me. I can hear the screams of the ones I love as the fire consumes them.

 

“Katniss, wake up! Katniss!” 

 

I scream one last time as I wake and gasp for air in the darkness of my apartment. My hands grasp for the body kneeling on the bed beside me and I cry out again when I find him there, warm and solid and real. 

 

“It was just a dream,” he whispers and pulls me into his lap, tangled sheets and all. He chants comforting words and brushes sweaty hair off my forehead as I cling to him. “Just a nightmare. It wasn’t real.”

 

Slowly, I calm down enough to release the iron clenching of my muscles. His familiar scent weaves into my blood and I lean into him, cling to his shirt to keep him from leaving. Eventually, the nature of our situation intrudes and nips at the edges of the comfort he’s providing. That I desperately need.

 

“I get them, too,” he whispers as he holds me. Exhaustion begins to creep in and he kisses my temple as he helps me lay back down.

 

“How’d you get in?” I ask just before I succumb to sleep, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

 

“I still have the key you gave me,” he admits. “I heard you screaming and I thought you might be hurt or...I’ll leave it when I go.”

 

“Don’t go yet,” I say and sink below the welcoming arms of sleep.

 

When I wake again, the bed is empty beside me. I stare at the pillow and the rumpled sheets, knowing in my gut that Peeta’s presence in my bedroom last night must have been nothing more than a dream. How sad that my subconscious has inserted him into my dreams when I need him the most.

 

I had hoped that distance would lessen the frequency of the nightmares, make them less vivid. If anything, they’ve gotten worse. It seems that all I dream about these days is losing them. Sometimes it’s my father, sometimes it’s Peeta. Most nights, it’s both of them. Fire rages in the night, that much brighter for the darkness, and I can’t seem to escape my fears.

 

It’s Monday, though, and I have classes to teach. So I force myself to rise, to wash and dress. To eat something and head downstairs to face the day. When I step off the elevator, I catch just a glimpse of him from the back, almost the same as I did all those months ago, dressed in his navy blue uniform, black bag on one shoulder, bent over his phone with headphones blaring music into his ears, drowning out the rest of the world. Only this time, he’s the one ducking into the stairwell and gone before I can even say his name.

 

He must’ve been working last night. He couldn’t have been there in my room.

 

The day passes in a haze and for all I know, I recited my pathetic life story to my students instead of the lecture for the day. As I leave the school, there’s a biting chill in the air, a huge contrast to a night nearly  two months ago when I danced with fireflies. I tuck my coat closer around myself and sit in my car, rubbing frozen palms together while I wait for the engine to warm up a little and the heater to kick in. I forgot my gloves this morning.

 

When I can at least stand to put my hands on the steering wheel, I drive towards home. Only, I’m so lost in thought that I miss one of my turns. It’s such a small thing, but after everything that’s happened in the past few weeks, it is what opens the floodgates.

 

Tears stream uninhibited down my face and my chest convulses with grief. It’s not until I’m on the outskirts of Seam that I realize where exactly I’ve pointed my car. My father died on a day like today. He seems to be everywhere lately. Dying over and over in my nightmares alongside Peeta. In Gale’s eyes as he asked me what I was running from. In Haymitch’s concerned looks as I left the school today. Singing his way into my mind when I ran into Annie as she hummed an old tune he used to sing on cold winter nights.

 

In every building I pass as I drive through Seam.

 

Gale was right. I’d be miserable back here. I realize this as every square inch of the town makes me think of my father and the fallout from his death. At least in the city, I can remember the happier times with him. Learning how to shoot, hiking and fishing on the lake shores. Even the fireflies. I could make a difference here, I know that I could, but at what cost to myself? My mother has survived it somehow, and maybe this makes me weaker than her, but as I pull up outside her house, I’m not sure that I was ever really any stronger than her to begin with.

 

I sit in the car for so long that the heat dissipates. I’m shivering when someone knocks on the window and I jump. My mother folds the open edges of her sweater over her chest and gives me a weak smile. I open the car door and the second I’m on my feet, her arms are around me. And just like that, I’m crying all over again. It’s been so long since I’ve let her hold me like this, trusted her enough to cry on her shoulder. But as she holds me and murmurs comforting words to me, I know that if nothing else, visiting her right now is exactly what I needed.

 

“Why don’t you come inside. I’ll make tea and we can either talk or you can just warm up. Whatever you need, Little Duck.”

 

I sob harder into her shoulder at her use of the name my father once gave me. A play on the fact that he named me after a plant often referred to as a duck potato. When he died, I started calling Prim that name, because the hand-me-down shirts she had to wear often came untucked, giving her a duck tail. And I guess, a part of me didn’t want to let go of any part of my father. But right now, in my mother’s arms...the endearment at least is mine again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting the last two chapters fairly quickly in an effort to both finish this one and get caught back up on my to-do list. As always, comments welcome! -- KDNFB


	13. Viraha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viraha - want or the realization of love arising from separation

**_Viraha_ ** _ \- want or the realization of love arising from separation _

 

* * *

 

Tired and weary down to my soul, I return to the city and to work early the next morning. Part of me wishes that I could call in sick. Forget about facing all people and wallow in my sorrow for a few days. I’d hardly call myself recharged as I drag myself through a shower and prepare to face the day. At least it’s only a half day with students, the last half dedicated to another form of torture -- Parent Teacher Conferences.

 

Somehow, I survive it and trudge home, dreaming of stew and crusty bread on order from Sae’s and a hot bath. I drop my bag on my kitchen table and pull out my phone. The number is programmed and I have the menu memorized by now. Once my food is on its way, I set the phone down, thinking I’ll grab a quick bath to warm up before the food arrives in thirty minutes, but something small and shiny on the table catches my attention.

 

A key.

 

I stare at it far too long as awareness prickles down my spine.  _ I’ll leave it when I go... _ he’d whispered in what I thought were my dreams, but the key’s presence on my table would suggest otherwise. Was he really here then? I'm exhausted and my brain stutters through logic and explanations, all of them cut short when Rowdy starts barking across the hallway.

 

Without thinking about what I’m doing, I snatch up the key and march out into the hallway, intent on losing my temper or maybe my mind since my heart and rationality are both clearly long since forfeit in this game.

 

Only, when I reach the hall, there’s a man I don’t recognize on the other side. Dark blonde hair and a bright red motorcycle jacket, his back turned to me as he knocks on Peeta’s door and Rowdy continues to bark.

 

“Can I help you?” I croak, but the man doesn’t move other than to glance back towards the elevator for a second. I take a few steps further into the hallway and yell at Rowdy that it’s fine. When I get close to tapping the man’s shoulder, he seems to sense my presence and turns. I choke back my gasp. He’s a few inches taller than Peeta and his hair is longer, darker, doesn't curl as much. His nose is too thin and pointed, his chin cleft where Peeta’s is smooth, but there's an uncanny resemblance. Now I’m seeing him in complete strangers. I really must have cracked.

 

The man’s blue eyes take in my appearance and peer past me into my open apartment door. His rude scrutiny annoys me enough to bring me back to my senses, and I cross my arms to repeat my question. “Can I help you?”

 

_ I'm sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for the person who lives in 4C… Peeta Mellark. He's my brother. _

 

He speaks and signs at the same time, spelling out both names so rapidly with his hands that if he hadn't spoken them too, I might not have caught them. The sounds of his forced words are a punch to my chest. Peeta's brother is deaf. He never told me that. What else did he never tell me? Thousands of questions run through my mind as I shift on my feet and loosen my hands from their hiding place beneath my arms so I can talk to him.

 

_ Peeta's probably at work right now. _

 

The man’s eyebrows lift a little and then he smiles.

 

_ You know ASL. You're a friend of his? Girlfriend?  _ The question hurts.

 

_ Sort of. Which brother are you? _

 

_ I’m Ryen,  _ he tells me. The middle brother. The one who vanished from foster care when Peeta was fifteen years old and still dealing with recovering from the burns on his back. Fierce and protective anger rushes through me.

 

_ I'll tell him you stopped by. Would you like to leave a message or a number where he can reach you? I’ll be sure he gets it. _

 

He glances up and down the hall and seems to be making a decision.

 

_ I don't know what he's told you about our past, but I'm trying to make changes. I should've come to see him months ago but I couldn't. I wasn't ready. _

 

_ And you are now? _

 

_ No. But he's my brother. Maybe it doesn't matter if I'm ready or not. I just have to do it. _

 

_ I don't understand,  _ I say and Ryen shakes his head a little, something sad in his features.

 

_ I don't want to keep you. You're easy to talk to, though. What's your name? _

 

_ K-a-t-n-i-s-s. Katniss,  _ I tell him.

 

_ Nice to meet you, Katniss. Have a good evening,  _ he says with a smile and I can easily see the family resemblance now. He turns and walks back towards the elevator.

 

The racing of my brain trips over so many thoughts, memories, and possibilities, but one thing is clear. They're both hurting. Years after fire tore them apart, they still need each other. They must.

 

“Wait! Ryen, wait!” I hurry after him and he turns back to face me when I'm nearly upon him. “Wait. He'd want to see you.”

 

Ryen blinks and I realize I forgot the signs. Frustrated with myself, I try again with both hands and mouth this time.

 

_ I understood your lips. I'm just surprised,  _ he says.

 

_ You're his brother,  _ I say as though this explains everything. 

 

_ Maybe you don't know him very well then,  _ Ryen signs and I shake my head. I don't know why it means this much to me to help them work this out. Then I think about Peeta on the roof, trying to help me fix my relationship with my mother and the regret he expressed that he never mended things with Ryen. It feels right to try and return the favor.

 

_ I know more than enough,  _ I say and Ryen’s brows lift a little in a smirk that I ignore. I'm testing the limits of my sign knowledge here and I need to get this out.

 

_ He’s a baker and a painter. His favorite color is orange. He sleeps with the window open and always double knots his shoelaces. He never takes sugar in his tea. He's a firefighter-- _

 

_ He's a what?  _ Ryen says angrily, stopping me before I manage to make a fool of myself with the words that whisper off the tip of my tongue but don't make it off my palms.  _ And I love him. _

 

It takes me a second to move past the shock of my own admission and realize what I just told Ryen. Which part he'd likely get angry over.

 

_ He's a firefighter,  _ I repeat.

 

_ Typical.  _ Ryen says and then runs his hand through his hair. The motion is so like Peeta that I splinter a little inside. The carefully held together cracks in my heart threaten to widen and break me in two.

 

_ You can stop by Firestation 12 if it’s urgent. Or try back here in the morning,  _ I tell him and I suddenly want him gone. Ryen’s presence reminds me of what I've done, of what I've carelessly thrown away, thinking it would protect me. But the truth is, it hasn't.

 

_ You're not joking. He really works as a firefighter? _

 

_ Yes. _

 

Ryen shakes his head again and thanks me. His fist smacks into the elevator buttons to call it and I jump at the small sign of aggression. When he's aboard and turned to face the door, I ask one last question.

 

_ Will you come back? _

 

_ Maybe,  _ he says and for some reason, as I stare at my smeared reflection in the brushed metal elevator doors, I feel as though I’ve lost Peeta all over again.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, who picked a Disney movie?” Annie asks as she dabs at the tears in her eyes.

 

“Katniss,” Prim wails. “It’s all Katniss’ fault!”

 

“I thought it would be cheerful! I’ve never seen this one before! The previews all made it look adorable.”

 

“It was until he cut her hair!” Prim yells and refills her glass. Even though Rapunzel’s last bit of magic has already revived Eugene, we’re all still a mess.

 

“You’ve already seen it,” I remind Prim who makes a face at me through her misty eyes.

 

“Oh my god why? Why?!” Annie asks as she grabs her wine from the table and takes another deep swig. “Maybe the wine was a bad idea.”

 

“You know what we need to cheer us up?” I say, struck by a sudden idea. “Cookies.”

 

“Oh yes!” Prim squeals and claps her hands together. “I brought break and bake!”

 

As one we stumble into the kitchen and rip the fridge door open. Annie starts the oven, grumbling about weird buttons on it and I dig out a pair of cookie sheets. Once we’ve got the first batch in the oven, we settle at the table with our wine to wait.

 

“Okay ladies, it’s time for Truth!”

 

“No Dares?” Annie asks, and I can hear the disappointment in her voice.

 

“Not whilst tipsy,” Prim says with a wag of the finger. “That’s how accidents happen.”

 

“Pffft,” Annie scoffs but she agrees to play Truth.

 

“Okay, first off, Annie...tell us about how you grew up,” Prim requests and Annie rolls her eyes. She plays along though.

 

“I grew up in District Four,” she says. “Which means that swimming and competitive sports were a way of life.”

 

“Ooooh, did you play in the Series with Katniss this year?” Prim asks.

 

“That’s two questions!” Annie protests. 

 

“She did,” I offer. “She was our pitcher and she scared all the boys away with her fast balls.”

 

“Oh I like you more every passing minute,” Prim says with a snigger and Annie preens for a second before taking her turn.

 

“Okay, Prim...what do you like least about medical school?”

 

“Cadavers,” she admits. “I’m always thinking up sad stories for how they died and then I don’t want to do the work.”

 

We laugh as we continue and I relax into the wine and the evening, glad that I invited Annie over tonight to share in sisterly bonding time complete with sleepover and family holiday tomorrow. My mother will be driving down from Seam in the morning, but I’m grateful that Prim flew in today from her university across the country. I’m not sure I can stand another night alone in this apartment.

 

While my time with my mother a few days ago helped provide some perspective, it wasn’t the kind I was hoping for. Gale was right. I can’t go back to Seam. It’s not home anymore. I suppose I could adjust back to living there, like I did to living here in the city, but I’m not sure it’s entirely worth the effort. Then my encounter with Peeta’s brother shook me up even more. I have no way of knowing if he ever came back.

 

The questions for our game begin innocent enough, but just before the timer goes off to announce the cookies, Prim leans on her hands and grins at me. Dread fills me and not without reason.

 

“Katniss,” she purrs. “What’s the name of your current beau?”

 

“What is this? The 1800’s?” I snarl and Prim claps her hands.

 

“You can’t answer me with a question! Now you have to answer two more Truths!”

 

I try to protest, but Annie shrugs. “Thems the rules, honey buns.”

 

“Fine! We broke up!” I shout and the table falls silent.

 

“When?” Annie asks leaning towards me with great concern. “Why?”

 

“We had a fight,” I say and suddenly, the levity is sucked from the room and I sniffle. 

 

“Over what?” Prim asks. “And what was his name? You don’t get out of answering that one! You can’t break up with him before I even know his name!”

 

“Mr. May,” Annie provides and Prim’s face screws up in concentration.

 

“What?” she asks.

 

“Peeta,” I say and fight back the choking sob in my throat. Wine is such a bad idea when mixed with heartbreak. I’ve made it all day without thinking about the look on his face while I yelled at him over trivial things, or the pain that seems to now be my constant companion, right next to my heart.

 

“His name is Peeta,” I say again and look up at Prim through bleary eyes. “He’s a firefighter and he’s in the charity calendar for next year. Mr. May.”

 

“Did some girl hit on him or something?” Prim says, her voice suddenly angry on my behalf. “Where’s he live? I’ll kick his nuts to Mars.”

 

“Cool it, Duck,” I say with surprising, genuine laughter in my voice. “That’s not what happened. I mean, it was what happened, but not why we broke up. Besides, I can’t keep other girls from hitting on him. And he dealt with it brilliantly. Jealousy and trust aren’t the problem with Peeta.”

 

“Then why?” Annie asks. “You two looked so happy together! He would’ve cut your hair!”

 

Prim snorts and we all follow her into weird, sobbing laughter, but I can’t help but think that Annie’s right. Peeta, self-sacrificing idiot that he is, would’ve done that for me. Only now, I’m not sure we can go back to what we were before. The key I found on my table still taunts me. After my run-in with his brother, I’d lost all my steam and couldn’t bring myself to confront Peeta about the key. It’s presence still messes with my head. I know it has to be the one I gave to Peeta, but when he returned it is a mystery. I put it back on the table after Ryen left and haven’t touched it since, spooked by its sudden appearance along with his brother’s.

 

The buzzer on the oven sounds and we switch out the cookies. While Prim and Annie are distracted, I can’t help my thoughts from wandering back to Peeta. To the night of the fire. I still break out in cold sweat when I think of it, but then I remember the feel of his lips in my hair, his arms around me, and the warmth of laughter. Fear and need war within me and finally, I flop back in my chair, weary of this constant tug-o-war in my mind. The girls seem distracted enough though; the new questions thankfully steer clear of boys. They seem to sense that the last thing I want to talk about is my love life. While Annie and Prim share deeper things, the most prying question I get asked is, “Do you prefer pancakes or waffles?”

 

“Is that...smoke?” Prim asks and sniffs, turning in her chair to look in the kitchen. “Oh my gosh! Fire!” she yells and we fall out of our chairs in our haste. My smoke detector starts screaming then and I hurry towards the cabinet with the extinguisher. We choke as I open the oven door, aim and fire. I can’t tell where exactly the flames are and smoke rolls out until I shout and Annie turns the oven off.

 

It feels like I’m dying, choking on the fumes, and I decide it’d be a fitting end. What I deserve.

 

But then strong arms wrap around me, broad hands cover mine. Somehow, I know it’s him and fall back against his chest, letting his hands guide mine. Before long, the flames vanish, although the smoke and the stench of burned rubber remain hanging in the air around us. Slowly, I turn to face him, momentarily stunned that he’s actually here. Then I glare at Peeta as he reaches up to silence the smoke detector, infuriated by the grin on his face and how handsome and wonderful he looks and the humiliation that I actually did set my kitchen on fire this time. And Mr. May answered the alarm.

 

“What the hell are you smiling at?” I snap and shove the extinguisher into his chest. He grabs it automatically, but his smile doesn’t disappear.

 

“I thought you were joking about setting your kitchen on fire the last time we talked about it,” he says and anger clouds my vision. He sets the extinguisher on the counter and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

 

“I  _ was _ joking! Does this look like a joke to you? You nearly died!”

 

“I wasn’t even close to dying, Katniss. But maybe you can explain why you were baking rubber.”

 

“We were baking cookies!” I yell, disturbed that I messed up my words and expressed worry over his death when I was clearly the one in danger of dying this time. Yet he has the nerve to smile like that. His nonchalance about my near-death experience aggravates me. Then something occurs to me. “How’d you even get in here? You take an axe to my front door?”

 

“Your sister opened the door to let the smoke out and I walked in,” he waves towards Prim who’s standing in the corner with wide eyes, looking between the two of us. I can see the gears working in her head. He nods at her and then at Annie who’s coughing behind me. “Nice to meet you Prim. Katniss speaks so lovingly of you, I feel as if I already know you. Miss Cresta, pleasure to see you again.”

 

With a sidelong glance at me, he steps back towards the oven while I fume a little. He grabs the oven mits and yanks out the drawer beneath the oven.

 

“My shoes!” Prim yells in dismay as smoke puffs up from the blackened, smoldering mess.

 

“You put your shoes down here?” Peeta asks her and she shrugs, confused.

 

“I put them in the warming drawer to dry. It was raining when we got back and I thought if I put them there, they’d warm up while we made dinner.”

 

“We ordered take out,” Annie reminds her and Prim tosses her hands up in the air.

 

“I forgot they were there. I don’t understand. Why’d they catch on fire?”

 

Peeta’s holding back laughter and I glare at him on my sister’s behalf. “What’s so funny?”

 

“It is a drawer on some ovens,” he explains. “But on a lot of them, including this one, it’s a broiler. You literally cremated your shoes.”

 

“Oh,” Prim says. And then she snorts. Again and she’s clutching her stomach in laughter. Within seconds, Annie has joined in and Peeta glances at me, his face sobering in seconds as I scowl at him. 

 

“Glad to see everyone so amused by this,” I say and cross my arms. “Where exactly are we going to cook our goose tomorrow?”

 

Prim snorts again and slaps her hands over her mouth when she sees the look on my face.

 

“You can borrow my oven,” Peeta offers and I turn my glare on him once more. “Or not. I’ll leave you ladies alone then. Try not to cook any more shoes though,” he says and walks towards the door.

 

Everything inside of me feels like it’s collapsing and Annie whispers behind me, “What on earth did you two fight about?”

 

I look around for something to ground me through her words and the longing that threatens to overwhelm me just from watching him walk away. Then I spot the key, still right where I left it.

 

“Nothing. We fought about  _ nothing _ . I’ll be right back. Open the windows to air this place out,” I say and ignore the concerned looks that Annie and Prim send my way as I charge into the hallway after Peeta.

 

“Peeta!”

 

“Yeah?” he spins back to face me so quickly that we nearly collide and he gently grasps my arms to steady me as I wobble on my feet.

 

“Th-thank you. For helping with the kitchen fire.”

 

“Oh. Anytime,” he says with a shrug, the smile that was forming on his lips slips off as he releases me to run a hand through his hair. 

 

“Katniss, can we maybe talk sometime?” he asks at the same time I hold up the key between us and ask my own question.

 

“Why’d you give this back?”

 

He blinks and stares at me oddly. “I said that I would. The other night.”

 

My beleaguered mind can’t quite process his words compared to what I know must have happened, and he looks away for a moment before he fills the silence between us.

 

“I know I should’ve returned it sooner. I guess I was still clinging to the hope we’d maybe be able to work things out, and I’m sorry if I crossed a line by letting myself into your home. I just...couldn’t listen to you scream like that and not do something about it if I could.”

 

“But you were working nights,” I protest. “I saw you coming in from your shift the next morning!”

 

“I was on day shift this week,” he says, confusion flickering before his eyes widen. “I forgot my lunch and came back for it that morning. You must have seen me then.”

 

“Oh,” I say and drop my arm, tapping the key against my leg. So then he really did run to my aid in the middle of the night. “What did you want to talk about?”

 

He glances over my shoulder at the open door of my apartment, distracted by Annie and Prim’s loud laughter over who knows what.

 

“I don’t want to keep you from your time with your sister and your friend. Could we maybe talk after Thanksgiving? There’s that cafe down the street. They just added cheese and herb croissants to their menu and I thought you’d like to give them a try.”

 

I should tell him ‘no.’ I should walk away and never look back, but the thing is...I don’t want to. For weeks I’ve been trying to uproot him from my heart, from my very being, to forget the way he makes me feel, and all I’ve done is make myself feel worse. Lower than garbage and as useless as a pile of ash. I can’t afford to succumb to the kind of love that drove my mother to depression and drink, but the least I can do is salvage whatever friendship we had before he kissed me. So I nod.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay?” He doesn’t seem to believe me so I nod and repeat the word. “Okay. Great. And, uh, I meant what I said about using my oven. I’ll be at the soup kitchen most of the day serving up dinner, so feel free to use my kitchen. It's probably gonna take a bit of elbow grease to get your sister’s charred shoes off your broiler grate.”

 

“Shut up,” I say and shove his shoulder slightly as we both smile and stifle our laughter. “I might make her do it alone as penance for humiliating me.”

 

His smile widens as he looks down at the floor between us and I shuffle my feet. I want to tell him so many things but he suddenly looks up at me and I get a little lost in his blue eyes. He tells me to wait right here for a moment and vanishes inside his apartment.

 

“Here,” he says when he returns and hands me the spare key to his apartment. “I’ll be gone by six thirty, so plenty of time to cook your goose.”

 

I snort at the cheesy phrase, just like Prim did, but tears gather in my eyes, too. The irony of this moment is not lost on me. Peeta sees it. Of course he does.

 

“Hey, it’ll be okay,” he soothes, swiping at the drops as they leak over the edge onto my cheeks. He pulls me into an embrace. “I’m so sorry, Katniss.”

 

“Me too,” I say, the words choked with the effort to not ugly cry and muffled against his cotton henley shirt. I cling to the fabric and inhale his scent and I realize, I never want to let go. No one’s arms have made me feel this safe, not since my father died and I stopped trusting my mother. And it doesn’t matter that he may have been trapped inside of a burning building. I don’t want to lose him, but neither do I want to keep living without him.

 

His lips graze the shell of my ear and I shiver, suddenly needing to feel his lips on mine again. Friendship be damned. But I hear a mumbled apology behind me and Peeta drops his arms, steps away from me.

 

“Don’t mind me,” Prim says and ducks back inside my apartment. Peeta smiles wryly at me and shrugs.

 

“You should get back to your Girl Time.”

 

“I’m supposed to go shopping with them on Black Friday,” I tell him. “So I’ll see you on Saturday?”

 

“Saturday,” he confirms, and he waits while I walk back to my door, giving me a slight wave before I return to my sister and Annie.

 


	14. Concupiscence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concupiscence: ardent sensual longing/ strong lustful desire

**_Concupiscence_ ** _ : ardent sensual longing/ strong lustful desire _

 

* * *

 

When I climbed into my bed next to my drunk sister, I expected to fall right asleep. After the week I’ve had, I’m so drained that I could barely move my limbs to help clean up at least some of the mess in my apartment. The windows remained wide open for several hours while we talked and watched another movie. Annie chose one with zero romance in it whatsoever, and I am grateful for that, although the more Prim drank, the more likely she was to spout out questions or comments about Peeta and my relationship with him until all I wanted to do was sleep and not think about boys. Especially not him.

 

But as I lay in my bed with the cold breeze whispering beneath the cracked open window and the smell of burned rubber faint but still present, my sister sleeping in the bed beside me and Annie on the fold-out couch, I can’t seem to let go of the tension in my body enough to find the relief of slumber or to keep my mind from constantly wandering back to him.

 

Curiosity over what he might want to talk about this Saturday, what he apologized for, and the many possibilities now presented to me, keep me thinking and rigid with the need to not fly across the hallway and demand his time right now. And maybe there's a little bit of fear that my sleep will be plagued with even worse nightmares than usual now that I am reminded what a luxury and comfort his mere presence is, to say nothing of the effect that his touch has on me.

 

Prim barely moves while I toss and turn and sigh and finally give up. I pull on some warm socks and grab the two loose keys from my kitchen counter. One to lock my door, the other to unlock Peeta’s. It occurs to me for a moment as I stand outside his apartment that I should knock, announce myself somehow. But I am too much of a coward to risk it, so I let myself in.

 

It’s a similar scene in his apartment as across the hall in mine. A duffle bag sitting next to the couch, contents partially pulled from its depths as though someone hastily tugged clothes free and didn’t bother to stuff the rest back in. The TV screen flashes and flares some kind of superhero TV show, the closed captioning scrolling words across the bottom and the volume on mute. A body sprawled and snoring beneath a blanket on the couch. I peer over the arm enough to reassure myself of what I already suspect. His brother, Ryen.

 

While I am glad that it seems Peeta and his brother at least are working to mend things, I am briefly annoyed that he didn’t mention it earlier. I really don’t want to take over his kitchen if it means hanging around his brother, whom I don’t know at all. Making a mental note to ask Peeta about it, I pad silently into his bedroom and shut the door behind me. As it clicks in place, though, I hear rustling from the bed and then the light snaps on. Peeta stares at me as he sits up in bed, rubs his eyes and blinks to help them adjust to the lights.

 

“Hey,” he says.

 

“Hey,” I answer. I grip the hem of my sweatshirt and wring it.

 

“Everything okay?” he asks and I shake my head. “Couldn’t sleep?”

 

“No,” I tell him, holding back the thoughts in my head.  _ Not without you. _

 

He lifts the covers of his bed and doesn’t need to say a word for me to recognize the invitation. I dive across him and settle beneath the blankets, keeping a good foot of space between us as he turns the lamp back off and lays down beside me. I’m still holding my body stiff and straight, though, struggling to alleviate the aches in my limbs from holding myself together, without disturbing Peeta. I roll once, just to see if it helps. It doesn’t. I roll again and settle on my side. Gradually my eyes adjust to the darkness enough to discern the outline of Peeta’s body lying next to me. 

 

“Did you want to talk about it?” he murmurs. I should let him sleep. He has to be up early tomorrow morning, except his hand finds mine between us in the darkness and he laces our fingers together.

 

“I don't even know where to start,” I admit. “What were you apologizing for?”

 

“For acting like a wounded jerk instead of trying to find out what upset you so much that night,” he whispers.

 

“Oh,” I mumble, because he didn’t do anything wrong. I basically demanded that he give me some space that night. There are so many things I want to say to him, so many things that I want to know, but he yawns loudly and my eyes droop for a moment. I catch myself before I fall asleep, afraid that I'll wake him with my screams, but then I wonder, why did I come over here if I'm just going to torment myself the same way I did when I was in my own bed.

 

“Peeta?”

 

“Mhmm?” He mumbles and I bite my lip in guilt, but I've disturbed him now so, I may as well get it out.

 

“Your brother...I met him the other night. Will we be bothering him if we use your kitchen tomorrow?” 

 

“Not at all. He's going with me to the soup kitchen.”

 

“Oh,” I say again, a little surprised by the sudden turnaround. I wonder what it is about their past that made Ryen so confident Peeta wouldn't want to see him. And maybe there's a little bit of jealousy that they seem so quick and capable at mending fences. I’m not a very forgiving person, but right now, I wish that I could be.

 

“He told me that he talked to you,” Peeta murmurs, which doesn't help the stiffness in my body.

 

“Oh? What did he say?”

 

“That you're beautiful and kind, and you told him where to find me. Thank you for that, by the way,” Peeta says. I blush and wait for the rest, for Peeta to bring up my litany of things I know about him or other things that may have slipped out to his brother, but he falls silent and his breathing begins to even out.

 

Slowly, I inch my way across the bed, closing the distance between us until I can wriggle my way beneath his arm. He shifts to hold me more comfortably and pulls my body into his. The effect is almost instantaneous as his warmth envelopes me, draining the tension from my muscles. I sigh as I finally find the relief I've been seeking, denying myself for reasons I can't even remember as his lips brush comfort over my forehead and his fingers trace love up and down my spine.

 

“Missed you, Peeta,” I whisper, uncertain if he's even awake to hear me until he whispers it back. Then I melt into sleep.

 

* * *

 

I wake cold and alone, searching my surroundings and confused for a moment until I remember that I am in Peeta's bed again. I tug the covers up higher to ward against the chill drifting in through the open window. A faint light enters through the bedroom door and I watch as he returns, his bare feet shuffling on the floor. He sips from a glass of water that he then sets on the nightstand before crawling back into bed, but the set of his shoulders is tense. Something's wrong.

 

“Peeta?” I whisper and he freezes. Something occurs to me as we sit in the darkness. “You said you get nightmares too. About your parents?”

 

“Amongst other things.”

 

“How come I never noticed before?”

 

“Don’t know. I don't really scream or thrash around. Just come to shaking and terrified,” he says and shifts beside me. I move back into his arms and trace a finger over his bare chest.

 

“Tell me,” I ask him. “Please?”

 

“That fire last month...the one I got called in for…and then as happy as I was to see him, Ryen cropping up dredged up a bunch of memories.” His disjointed speech worries me, especially since he’s usually so good with words.

 

“Were you one of the firefighters who got trapped?” I ask when he doesn't continue.

 

“No,” he says, surprise in his voice. “You thought I was?”

 

“It all blurs together. I didn't hear them announce names on the news and I couldn't get ahold of you or anyone down at the station.” 

 

“No, it wasn’t me,” he says, and yet knowing this doesn’t soothe any of my fears. There was also the haunted look in his eyes when I found him in the hallway with Rowdy, and the almost desperate way he made love to me, the need that seeped from every word when he told me that he loves me, as though he feared it might be our last day together and he couldn't stand to let it pass without the words and the proof escaping him. Perhaps a piece of me recognized his behavior as that of someone who’d just come face to face with his mortality, but I was so caught up in my own issues and fears that I was blind to his.

 

“It was Finnick,” he whispers, halting my thoughts and sending cold steel straight to my bones. “Finnick was the one trapped. Along with Pollux and Brent.”

 

I think about the three firefighters I know from his station, people Peeta thinks of as his family, and move closer so that our legs brush. He wraps his arms around me and holds me while he continues.

 

“We were making our way out of the building. It was like something out of a horror movie. Took us too long to get some kind of roster of who would be in the buildings at that time and where they were, cross check it with the survivors already outside in the care of the EMTs then to find them all and get them all out. We found several who weren’t supposed to be there, and that prolonged the search.

 

“I had the last person we knew about on my shoulders. This poor guy had been working in the boiler room, in the basement. We had to hack our way down there and he was nearly unconscious by the time we got to him. Gave him a breather and hauled him out of there. Meanwhile, the wind had turned and we were losing control of the fire. Sometimes, they feel like they’re alive, with their own personality. And this one felt almost...malicious.

 

“Finnick was in lead, me right behind, Pollux and Brent bringing up the rear. We moved as fast as we could. Then Finnick stopped and grabbed me, shoved me in front of him. When I turned around to ask what he was doing, there was nothing but a wall of metal and sparks. The sound of it...being able to hear them on the comms but not see them...the way it echoed when that beam hit the floor...it sounded like a death knell.”

 

I wait for the rest, hanging on for dear life because his voice and words alone paint such a vivid picture of fear, love, and despair, even without being able to see his expressions. I can feel the heat of the flames and hear the crashing of his world.

 

“I had to leave them behind,” he whispers and the words stab deep in my heart. “I didn't have a choice, Katniss. I had a life on my shoulders and he needed medical attention. I had to get him out of there. Eventually we got Finnick and the others out too, dehydrated and tired but otherwise fine.”

 

He sighs and moves to break the connection between us by letting me go and lying down. I follow, not allowing him to run. For a moment, I try to imagine what that must be like. Would I have been able to leave behind Prim to save a complete stranger? It shines new light on what Peeta’s profession entails, the kinds of choices he might have to make. Do you leave behind your family or sacrifice a stranger in your protection? I shimmy closer to him, my heart thrumming with new appreciation and a hefty serving of guilt for our fight the day after. He was dealing with this and I let my fears take over. But maybe it’s not too late. Maybe, we’re the man waiting in the basement. In peril but not without hope.

 

“You did what you had to, Peeta. If you hadn't...that man would've died.”

 

“But it doesn't change the fact that I left them behind.”

 

“What does Finnick think?” I ask, because I know that he respects and looks up to Finnick. And maybe, I need the reassurance, too. Peeta sighs and grumbles at me, but I poke him in the ribs to get him to say it louder.

 

“He says I did the right thing!” Peeta huffs and I smile.

 

“See? Finnick and I can agree on some things. He still has tacky tastes in clothing, though.”

 

Peeta laughs and hauls me into his embrace so that I’m lying on top of him, my ear resting on his chest in my favorite spot. Right where I can hear the steady beat of his heart. I close my eyes and sigh, relaxing again as Peeta rubs my shoulders and back.

 

“What about you?” Peeta asks after a few minutes of silence. “I know we said we’d talk on Saturday…”

 

“But we might as well, since we’re awake?”

 

“We don’t have to,” he whispers. “We can just go back to sleep.”

 

Only I don’t want to sleep anymore. Peeta might be exhausted tomorrow, and maybe I will be too, but his hands on my back have stirred to life a different kind of fire. Warm and steady, more like the flickering of candlelight than a raging inferno. I shift so that my lips brush his jaw. His stubble scrapes my lips. I scrape back with my tongue and Peeta shudders beneath me, his hands clenching on my back.

 

I nuzzle my nose into his neck, inhaling deeply before latching my mouth to him. I always loved it when he would kiss my neck like this. The nerves seemingly connected to my entire body, all the way down to my toes so that even the slightest brush of lips would send me into a fit a shivering, craving so much more from his mouth. Peeta seems to enjoy it just as much, his legs bending and flexing, soft moans rumbling in his chest. When I focus on the fleshy junction right where neck meets shoulder, his body bucks beneath mine. I keep sucking and nipping up and down the column of his neck, enjoying the strangled noises of pleasure he makes. I find a patch of skin right below his ear and jaw that smells delicious, slick arousal coating my lips as I ferociously suckle and sink my teeth in there while Peeta's fingers dig into me and his raw moans fill my ears with music.

 

Suddenly, he rolls us to our sides, his arms crushing me to him as our lips find one another’s in the dark. Our bodies pressed tight together, no room for ghosts or even air between us and yet it's still not close enough to quench my need for him. I hook my leg over his and grip his hair with both hands, trying to somehow meld our two beings into something unbreakable. We sway and shift, restless and eager. Hungry and yet patiently savoring each touch, each sigh.

 

When we come up for air, he nuzzles my neck, kissing tender flesh and sending shivers of delight dancing over my skin. Behind my closed lids, I watch the gentle dancing and flickering of imagined light, feel it spread through my body to the tips of my fingers, fueled by each word he whispers.

 

“Katniss, say something. You kicked me out and --”

 

“I say stupid things when I’m scared,” I confess to him.

 

“What are you scared of?” he whispers, his hot breath tickling my lips.

 

“I thought I’d lost you. And when you were okay, I realized just how much it could break me if I really did.”

 

“So you picked a fight?” The annoyance in his voice is palpable in the dark.

 

“I said it was stupid,” I mutter and he laughs but then he kisses me again. We share old hurts and recent wounds, the weight of them lessening with each pass of swollen lips. His hand caresses up and down my back, finally grabbing hold of my ass to pull our hips closer together.

 

Then he moves on, kissing over neck and clavicle, over my sweat shirt, his nose brushing back and forth as he alternates kisses with speaking of the depth of his love for me, how much he wanted to understand why I pushed him away, and how crazy he drove himself wondering what he did wrong. Everything he'll do to make himself worthy of me.

 

“Peeta,” I cry in a broken voice as he shifts my legs to cradle him. My fingers comb through and cling to his hair, wordlessly begging him to keep going. He tugs off my shorts and my panties. “You don't need to do -- Peeta,  _ yes _ .”

 

The rest of my words get lost as he resettles with his mouth covering me. I gasp out what I can to tell him that I'm the one who could never deserve him, but the words are garbled in pleasure and cries of delight. He holds my hip in place, fingers caressing bare skin. His other hand skims up under my shirt to tease my nipples. I think once more of candlelight, gentle warm and loving. And just before I crest, I stuff my fist in my mouth to keep from screaming that I love him.

 

I don’t want to tell him like this, in the throes of passion. He deserves to know that it's not because I need him nor because he can still set my entire being on fire with just the whisper of a touch, but that it's real, able to withstand fear and every obstacle my mind might bring crashing down between us. Because that's what you do when you love someone. You find the courage to face your fears for them.

 

Peeta slides up my body, pushing layers of fabric out of his way until his mouth reaches my breasts. After the way he feasted on my pussy, the gentle attention to my nipples drives me half crazed with need. I wriggle beneath his weight, managing to get my sweatshirt off but the tank top stays as he sits up and flicks the lamp back on. 

 

While I’m distracted by the light, he lays back down on top of me, kissing and sucking on the delicate skin on my neck. My body quakes with the ribbons of pleasure that flow out from where his mouth touches me. My hips buck up into him and I lock my ankles around his waist to pull him down into me. The slick fabric of the athletic shorts he’s wearing slides over my lips, the cool sensation covering his hardness maddeningly sexy after the soft heat of his mouth. He’s barely moving, but I’m at risk of coming again just from his mouth on my neck. But I want his cock inside me the next time I come. I reach down and tug on the waistband of his shorts.

 

“These. Off. Now,” I demand and Peeta nips at my neck before pushing off of me.

 

Slowly, not breaking eye contact, he peels off his clothes. As soon as he's naked, I fly into action, shoving him onto his back. I straddle him and draw the blankets up over us.

 

“Katniss,” he stops me when I've got my hand wrapped around his cock and our cores aligned. “I haven't...there's been no one else since you.”

 

“Same here,” I admit and he smiles in relief as I lower myself so I can kiss him, hands wedged between us to join our bodies together. His hands shake as they skate from my hips up to my ribs, digging in as we both moan at the feel of being together again. I swivel my hips for a few seconds, enjoying the heat of him beneath me once more and the feel of his cock filling me. 

 

My body screams at me to move, so I slide up his torso and back down. I plan to move slow, to savor this to make up for how numb and distant I was the last time. I want to feel every rasp of our skin and every twitch of his cock inside me. Every last pant of desperate breath on my cheek or my neck and the whispered sound of my name on his tongue. Only I find myself sliding at first on every thrust then impatiently slamming my hips into his to take the last inch of him.

 

“Oh fuck!” he yells as the bed and our thighs shake with each impact. I cover his mouth and shush him, so he doesn't wake his brother in the next room. He grins beneath my palm and I sheepishly remove my hand to brace it on the wall over his head. 

 

“Say something stupid, Katniss,” he begs as he grips the sheets over my ass. His palms are so big and broad that he manages to grab handfuls of flesh, even through the thick blankets, kneading and tugging as I rock myself over him and gaze down into his eyes.

 

“I dream about you.” Now that I’ve started, more words spill out, erratic and interrupted by moans. “Oh,  _ Peeta _ ! My nightmares...they’re about losing you too.”

 

Something sparks in his eyes as I drop my forehead to his and press our noses together, close my eyes to focus on the mounting pleasure. My chest heaves for air and my skin pricks in anticipation of it.

 

“Just bad dreams about me?” he asks and I shake my head. The tendrils of release taunt me as I move faster, bracing my hand on his chest to chase after the perfect angle.

 

“Good dreams, too. Like this and -- and -- Gonna come, Peeta,” I whine, hoping he'll join me.

 

“No. Not yet,” he says, cupping my face in his palm and slowing my hips with his other hand. He holds me motionless above him while his hips roll beneath me and our lips move in sync with his motions. My own release flutters just beyond my reach and I growl in frustration, but Peeta nudges my chin until we're staring at one another, his hand in my hair keeping me from running away from the determined fire in his blue eyes.

 

“Were you really angry about my things in your place?” he asks, never once losing the rhythm of his hips. And even though it’s not enough to get me there, it still feels so incredibly good. “Tell me now or I stop.”

 

“No. Don’t. Please.” I swallow and shake my head frantically, cupping his cheeks in my palms. “I love...having your sketchbook on my table. I love having your toothbrush next to mine on the sink. I love waking up beside you and cooking with you. I -- I need you -- Peeta, please?”

 

He releases me and his hands loosen my hair until it falls around his face. I reach out blindly for him, already lost in the need to come. He joins our hands, our fingers lacing together as I roll my hips over him. Our joined hands slam into the mattress over his head as we both arch and grunt. Somehow, he manages to get his mouth on my breast, bathing the nipple through my shirt with his tongue until the chorus of our desperate moans fills the night. 

 

“I need you,” I beg as my walls clench and bliss flickers through me at blinding speed. He wrenches his hands free of my grasp and grips my shoulders, pulling me against him as he groans my name. I can’t tell who’s shaking harder as we finally come to rest, the air around us heavy. Peeta brushes soft kisses over my shoulder and then my lips. We kiss until my arms start to shake and I lower myself to rest on his chest. My heart still pounds, but as he lightly scrapes his nails up my back and shoulder, it calms and slows. I caress his cheek while we kiss until I am relaxed enough to sleep in peace.

 

* * *

 

 

The next time I wake, it’s with an urgent need and Peeta standing beside the bed, pulling on his navy blue cargo pants. I take a moment to enjoy the view as he leaves them unfastened while he checks something on his phone, affording me a good look at the trail of blond hair I’ve become so familiar with and his black cotton briefs, a brief glimpse of his chest before he tugs on his shirt. I scurry out of bed as he sits to put on his boots. When I’m done in the bathroom, I find my panties and crawl beneath the covers. I should go back to my own place, but I’m not ready to perform the walk of shame in front of his brother. I’ll leave after they do.

 

“What time will you be back?”

 

“Around five,” he says. “Why?”

 

“So I know what time we should have the dinner ready,” I tell him and he freezes with one boot half laced to look over his shoulder at me. “Unless you and Ryen have already got plans.”

 

“We were just gonna throw something together from what I’ve got in my fridge. Are you sure, Katniss?” he asks and I nod.

 

“I mean, you did rescue my sister and I last night. The least I can do is feed you and your brother, right?” I bite my lip and hope he understands. I might not be ready to say the words to him in the daylight, but that doesn’t mean I can’t prove their truth to him.

 

“Alright,” he says with a smile and finishes lacing his boots. He stands and bends over to kiss me. “See you for dinner then.”

 

I sneak back across the hall after Peeta and his brother are gone, relieved to find both girls still asleep where I left them. After a quick shower, I braid my hair back wet and dress in something comfy. I’ve eaten and started coffee by the time Annie drags herself from the couch. I silence my humming as she accepts the mug I hand her and pours herself some coffee while I flip the bacon. The oven might be out of commission, but the stovetop isn’t. 

 

“Last night was…” Annie trails off and I can feel her eyes on me.

 

“Something else,” I finish with a slight shrug, hoping she doesn’t pry too much further. I’ve just started to repair things with Peeta and in many ways, it feels brand new all over again. Thankfully, she drops it. 

 

We talk work and goofy family traditions while we fix breakfast and get the goose in warm water to finish defrosting the last little bit. While we’re scrubbing the dishes from breakfast preparations, Prim drags herself in for a coffee and then to the bathroom. She doesn’t say a word, and Annie and I hold back giggles at her near zombie state. When she emerges, I am astonished by the transformation. Prim’s fresh as a rose covered in morning dew and energetic as she sips her second coffee and urges Annie to take a refreshing shower herself. 

 

We’re all ready to face the day by mid-morning when my mother arrives. I explain the oven situation and extra guests to her as best I can while we gather what we’ll need and head across the hall. As we enter Peeta’s apartment, I can’t help the guilt I feel at invading his space with an army of my family. I already know that he and his brother straightened up before they left, and I made the bed and made sure there were no traces of last night. Prim looks around curiously and gives me a strangely knowing look when she spots the bed through the open bedroom door.

 

Annie finds the annual parade on the TV and leaves it on quiet while we take our time with the dinner. An abundance of easy conversation and laughter flow between us while we work, sustained by the small lunch Prim throws together.

 

“Time for memory lane, Everdeens!” Prim announces once the goose is in the oven. She pulls a massive photo album from the bag she dragged over with her.

 

“I'm sorry, Annie,” my mother murmurs. “I tried to teach her manners.”

 

“No, this is great. I could use some embarrassing back story on Katniss to use as leverage next time we need someone to help with the school theater productions,” Annie says with a sly smile and I stick my tongue out at her.

 

We spend hours poring over embarrassing pictures of me hanging from trees or running wild in the woods and meadows near the lake. Crooked teeth, scraped or muddy knees, and pigtail braids. Prim with freckles and poorly coordinated outfits.

 

“I was daring with my fashion choices from an early age!” she protests our teasing.

 

Sticky blue juice from a popsicle running off her chin and into my father's hair as she sat perched on his shoulders. We laugh and I grip my mother’s hands while we both restrain tears, but even as she wipes a few strays from her cheeks...she's smiling, happiness glowing from her eyes. 

 

He's everywhere in these pages, and for the first time in ages, I don't feel saddened by the memories. There's a brief stab of pain when we find a picture of him standing proudly beside me to display my first buck. I can still taste the spice of the meat on my tongue and smell the aromas of the deer sausage my mother cooked for breakfast the following day. Hear him singing and all of us laughing at the silly tune he chose to teach us that morning. But as I watch the happiness radiate off the faces around me, I am struck by a different kind of longing.

 

By the time five o’clock rolls around, I begin anxiously double checking all of the food to make sure it’ll be ready on time. My mother and Prim dig out whatever nice dishware they can find in both my kitchen and Peeta’s to set the table. Annie slaps my hand away from the mashed potatoes and insists that her grandmother shared the best recipe ever for them before she died.

 

When the grinding sound of the key in the lock announces Peeta and Ryen’s return, I am almost foolishly happy. I’m running through the words in my head, how exactly to introduce him to my mother as the door opens. Peeta’s smile should send me to the moon, but there’s an ugly purple bruise on his neck, right below his jaw. It takes me a second too long to figure out what it is, although the unmistakable crescent of bite marks helps, and Prim beats me there. Her raucous laughter fills the apartment as my face burns. A quick glance at my mother only makes things worse.

 

I may as well have written on his forehead in lipstick: Katniss’ sex toy! 

 

Even his brother is holding back laughter, but Peeta’s face tells me that he has no idea what’s going on.

 

“We’ll be right back,” I manage to shout over the laughter and shove him back through the door.  _ You didn’t tell him, did you?  _ Signed quickly to Ryen, who laughs and answers,  _ Why would I? Too good to pass up. _

 

“Prim, Annie...get dinner on the table and oh by the way, this is Peeta’s brother Ryen,” I manage to get out the words without snarling.

 

“What’s everyone laughing about?” Peeta asks as I drag him into my apartment and towards the bathroom. “And what are you doing? I know I smell like mass produced cranberry sauce and dishwater but -- well shit…” he trails off as I point at his reflection in the mirror and he finally looks at himself. He runs his palm over the bruise while humiliation threatens to burn me to ashes on the spot.

 

“Exactly how am I supposed to explain  _ that _ to my  _ mother _ ?”

 

“I think she already figured it out,” he teases and I huff, but when he pulls me towards him, I don’t care that he does kinda stink. I wind my arms around his neck and let him brush our noses together. “The real question is...where does this leave us?”

 

“It leaves you in here, making good use of my shower. And me across the hall making sure the food doesn’t go cold in the meantime.”

 

“I don’t care about the food,” Peeta whispers, resting his forehead on mine and staring at me.

 

“You should. It’s going to be the best Thanksgiving dinner you’ve ever had.”

 

“Even with a hickey on my neck in plain sight for your mother and sister to know what we did last night?”

 

“Especially with that,” I quip and Peeta laughs while I mutter that I’ll bring over clean clothes for him. Then I hold up my hand between us with his key to my apartment in my fingers. “Lock it on your way back over? And I don’t want this back.”

 

He’s silent as I untuck his shirt and slide the key into his waistband, his stomach twitching as the cool metal brushes his skin. It takes me a moment or two to look back up at him, but when I do, I can’t look away.

 

“Katniss, I can’t promise that I won’t ever be in danger,” he whispers.

 

“I know,” I interject before he can keep talking. “I know that. And while I want more than anything to just keep you someplace where you’ll never get hurt again, I know that I can’t do that. And I was being selfish and stupid when I picked that fight with you.”

 

Even though the telling is done in a handful of sentences, I go hoarse describing the day my father died and the interminable waiting for news, how much the night of the fire brought on those terrible memories and the fears that I’d wind up like my mother. Peeta cups my chin in his palm when I’m done and collects my tears on his thumb. His lips brush over mine.

 

“What if I sent you text messages periodically, to let you know that I’m okay?” he suggests.

 

“That might help,” I whisper, still trying to get my tears under control.

 

“It might take awhile for me to get in the habit,” he warns. “I’m not used to someone worrying about me like this.”

 

“Well, you’re gonna have to get used to it,” I tell him. Then yank his head down to mine.

 

And I don’t care one bit several minutes later when I walk into Peeta’s apartment and Prim sniggers at the matching red mark on my neck from where Peeta sucked and nipped while he drove into me from behind and I watched us both come undone in the mirror. 

 

* * *

 

I’m not sure how it happens or where it even starts. One minute, we’re quietly enjoying the food, Ryen patiently correcting Annie with her signing and Peeta listening as Prim talks endlessly about med school, but the next minute the room is all laughter and flushed cheeks. 

 

Surprisingly, it’s Annie who suggests we go around the table, sharing what we’re thankful for. She kicks off by saying that she’s thankful for sour gummy bears...the only thing that got her through this last round of parent-teacher conferences. Everyone shares something silly at first.

 

“ _ Training wheels because there’s no way I would’ve learned to ride a bike without them _ ,” Ryen tells us.

 

“The sounds of crickets in the summer.” 

 

“The morbid humor of my lab partner,” Prim declares.

 

“ _Those placemats you can color on at restaurants!_ ”

 

“ _The color green._ ”

 

Around the table we go until Prim takes Mom’s hand in hers and turns the list serious with, “The strength of family.”

 

“ _ Forgiveness,”  _ Ryen adds and Peeta nods in agreement. 

 

“ _ Second chances.”  _ I once more wonder what exactly happened between them, making a mental note to ask later, when we’re alone.

 

“Really bad childhood pictures that remind us of the good times,” I offer.

 

“Friends who welcome you into their family and don’t care what your past is,” Annie says with a soft smile in my direction. Maybe one day, she’ll trust me enough with her story, too. But I don’t want to push her.

 

From there, the gathering winds down quickly. Bodies eager to help with the clean up cram the kitchen until Ryen chases Prim away with a spatula, insisting that the cooks don’t clean. We still manage to help wrap up leftovers while Ryen and Peeta are busy washing the mountain of dishes. A quiet dessert of creamy pumpkin pie, vanilla ice cream, and decaf coffee includes an invite for Annie to stay one more night and join us for shopping, which she happily accepts. A quick discussion of sleeping arrangements follows and it’s decided that Annie will stay on the couch while Prim and my mother share my bed.

 

“You’re just gonna sneak into Mr. May’s bed anyways,” Prim teases as we talk it over and I throw my napkin at her.

 

Shortly after the three ladies are settled in my apartment for sleep, I curl up on the couch with my head on Peeta’s lap while he and Ryen talk with the TV on mute in the background. Before long, I’m half asleep and Peeta carries me to his bed. 

 

“Peeta, before I go to sleep...what happened with Ryen? Why’d he leave?”

 

“We were young and stupid. Still are in many ways,” he tells me as he yanks off his shirt and jeans, tossing them into the corner. “It was Graham’s idea to put Ryen in the middle during the fire. Ryen thought it should’ve been me, since I was the youngest. He wanted to protect me; Graham thought Ryen needed the protection more. And I didn’t argue against Graham...then when the bills for burn treatments and therapy started rolling in, Ryen blamed me for saddling him with the expense, since Graham wasn’t there to take the blame or to help out. We were both...grieving and hurting. Mentally for both of us, physically for me. I was on a lot of pain meds for a long time and getting off of them was a struggle. I put up resistance anytime they tried to separate us, did everything I could to keep us together, and Ryen resented it, thinking I did it because of his hearing. We didn’t know how to deal with any of it and being passed around from one family to another didn’t help. Eventually, we both started believing that no one wanted us, and instead of helping each other, we said nasty things we shouldn’t have. Picked fights with each other and anyone who’d share blows with us at school, and eventually, he left.”

 

“He seemed upset when I told him you were a firefighter.”

 

“When we were moved into our second home with some random cousins, he told me I had a superior attitude and a savior complex,” Peeta says with a wry smile. “I told him that he enjoyed playing the victim and blaming everyone else for his problems... He may have been right about me, and he sees my job as proof.”

 

I trace my fingers up and down his bare torso as we lay in the semi-darkness. Light from the moon and the city lights filter in through the partially open curtains that flutter in the breeze.

 

“It’s probably better that he left. Maybe we would’ve destroyed each other if he’d stayed. I wish we’d been better to one another when we needed each other the most, and once I was working for PFD, I did try to find him. I didn't have any luck, but I’m grateful he did. I’m thankful he came back.”

 

My fingers continue their wandering dance until Peeta grips them, flattening my palm over his thudding heart. I tug my hand free as he rolls to kiss me, peeling off clothes as we map bodies with lips and hands. And although we’re both tired, we still join our bodies and rock slowly together. When we’re laying on the bed, sweating and panting with our bodies flung apart, only our ankles crossing each other’s because the heat of touching has become nearly unbearable, I whisper one more thing to Peeta.

 

“I’m thankful for working smoke detectors and pesky little sisters who accidentally cremate their shoes.”

 

Peeta laughs, and the sound draws me into his side where I stay for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

**_Two months later…_ **

 

“No. Not on your life,” I insist as Annie bats her long brown eyelashes at me.

 

“Pleeeeeease,” she begs. “I cannot work with him as an assistant coach. You have  _ got _ to throw me a lifeline here.”

 

“I’d love to help, Annie,” I say, completely insincerely. “But I’m just too busy what with the spring musical kicking off next month with tryouts. Ms. Seeder really needs my help, especially since you can’t this time. Besides, if the guy is volunteering to help coach little league, he can’t be  _ all  _ bad, can he?”

 

“He’s an arrogant prick! You should’ve seen this shirt he was wearing at the coaches’ meeting!” I hold back my laughter as we toss our trash from our afternoon pick me up snack and recycle what we can in the new bins that were part of Rue’s service project that helped get her into the college she wanted along with a scholarship worth a little over half of her tuition.

 

“What did it say?” I ask, wondering if it’s one that I’ve seen on him before.

 

“ _ Firefighters: Find ‘Em Hot, Leave ‘Em Wet _ ...stop laughing, Katniss!” Annie shouts. “It was completely inappropriate! I mean, I only saw it after the meeting when I stupidly agreed to get coffee and talk with him about ‘team strategy’ or whatever the hell it was he called it and he took off his sweatshirt, but--”

 

“So it wasn’t visible at the coaches’ meeting?” I ask, biting the inside of my cheeks and trying not to picture Finnick chatting coaching techniques over a cappuccino while Annie fumes and he’s oblivious to the effect of his shirt on her.

 

“Well...no, but still. He’s a peacock!”

 

My phone chimes then and Annie rolls her eyes but smiles as I pull it from my pocket to check the message.

 

_ Just finished. Be home in about an hour. Love you <3 _

 

I still worry about him, and the nightmares have gotten easier to deal with although they never fully leave me alone. But true to his word, Peeta finds ways to alleviate my fears every time he runs into a fire and a million or three ways to make all the quiet days in between worth the handful of hours of anxiety.

 

**_See you then. Love you, too._ ** I send back.

 

Annie nudges me and I wipe the goofy smile off my face from answering Peeta and pocket my phone.

 

“How long?”

 

“A little under an hour,” I tell her and she nods.

 

“Let’s get this done, then.”

 

School resumes tomorrow and unpacking all our new lab equipment we purchased with the money from the series is the last thing on our to do lists. We work quickly, sorting through the old lab equipment in the supply closet, recycling whatever glass is useless, washing the ones that can still be salvaged, and finding places for all of the new pieces, including the dozen brand new microscopes beneath their protective vinyl covers. 

 

On my way home, I order food from Sae’s since I’m sure neither of us will be up to cooking. I kick off my shoes as soon as I walk through the door and toss my bag on the couch before getting the final touches ready. I smile at the calendar swaying on my fridge door as I pull out a bottle of wine. 

 

At first, I worried that Peeta would be upset about me hanging the thing on the fridge, but I kind of forgot to buy a less naked calendar before the new year started. I needn't have worried, though. When he went to get eggs from the fridge on New Year’s Day so we could make breakfast and Mr. January’s naked ass greeted him, Peeta just laughed and kissed away my embarrassment. Five more months and it’ll be Peeta and his malfunctioning pants on my fridge.

 

I can hardly wait. And it might just perpetually be May from then on out.

 

I’ve just got the loaf of bread Peeta baked last night out on the counter and am in the middle of slicing it when I hear Rowdy barking excitedly across the hall. I drop the knife and hurry to lean against my door jamb, watching the excited puppy jump and place his paws on Peeta’s chest. Peeta scratches behind his ears and glances up to smile at me.

 

“You’re back,” I say. It’s what I should’ve said that awful night almost three months ago. Thank goodness for second chances.

 

“Yeah,” he says and ushers Rowdy back into Mags’ apartment before striding across the hall to ours -- well legally it’s still just mine, but it may as well be his, too. His stuff is everywhere. He pauses in front of me and I drop my forehead to his chest. His lips caress over the part in my hair and I shiver at the gentle caress. 

 

“You and Annie get everything all set up?” he asks when we finally let go of one another.

 

“Yep,” I say. He drops his bag and we let the door shut behind us. “Food from Sae’s will be here in twenty minutes.”

 

“Plenty of time,” he murmurs and before I can ask what he means by that, he’s curved his hand on my neck, over my loose hair, and his lips kiss away any questions. I grip the collar of his fleece jacket and flatten my body against his. He releases a surprised grunt, but I don’t know why. I’ve never been able to keep my need for him much of a secret. We stand there, kissing and wasting precious moments as the time until our food arrives ticks away. As his tongue swipes over my lips, I know exactly what he meant.

 

My lips part and the kiss burns out of control as my hands tear at his jacket and we stumble into the table, sending a chair screeching for just a second before it knocks into its neighbor. Into the wall as he flings aside the jacket and we tear at each other’s belts and zippers. His pants get caught on his boots and he flops back on the bed. I bend over and yank on the laces until they’re loose enough to get them and his pants off. He lifts his hips while I pull his underwear off just enough to give the tip of his cock a quick suck. Peeta curses and while his boxer briefs are only down around his upper thighs, he curls one arm around me and tosses me onto the bed. I squeal but my arousal already coats my lips and is starting to soak through my panties. My legs fall open as he crawls between them, grinding down into me as we kiss, wet, sloppy, and frantic. Hands roam beneath shirts and around to grip asses to hold our hips together.

 

“Peeta,” I gasp as I catch a quick look at the clock. “Fifteen minutes.”

 

“Fuck,” he mutters, but he flips me over onto my stomach and lifts my hips up into the air as I try to regain my bearings.  His warm hands skim over my hips and ass, taking my panties with them until they reach my thighs. He leaves them there and then his mouth is on my lips. I squeal again, but even this pleasure has a time limit. A second later, the head of his cock brushes where his mouth just teased. I jerk my hips back in a silent plea and Peeta stops his torment, plunging into me with one swift, smooth stroke that makes us both groan in relief. 

 

I’ve barely adjusted to his girth when he braces his hands beside me, the heat of his chest laying on top of my back as his hips thrust in a steady rhythm. I can feel his thighs, still covered in the cotton of his underwear, smacking into mine and eventually even the light tap of his sac. His cock pushes me fast and hard towards the edge of sanity while he whispers pure filth into my ear and I grip the sheets to survive the ride, bury my face in my pillow to muffle my screams. Even the bite of my stretched taut panties on my thighs can’t stop the ignition deep in my core.

 

“Do you know?” he murmurs to my neck. “Do you know what you do to me, Katniss? I’ve been rock fucking hard all day. Ever since I found that damned lace thong in my pocket. Fuck, you put it there on purpose, didn’t you? God, did you know it’d make me think of taking you in the locker room, back slammed against the cold metal with your legs wrapped around me while I fucked you till you screamed? Or you riding my face on the floor of my room because we couldn’t make it to the bed? Or fuck, in the elevator with your legs spread and my cock deep inside you like this.”

 

My feet lift off the bed of their own accord and Peeta shouts at the new sensations that causes. He wedges one hand between me and the bed to grasp onto me, kneading one breast as his lips and teeth drag up my spine and he nuzzles his face in my hair as he moans about how he also thought about running to the school and begging me to suck his cock in my classroom.

 

“Need -- I need -- Peeta,” I keen and arch against him, biting my own arm to silence my mindless words. He knows what I want and slips his other hand beneath me to rub furious circles over my clit.

 

“Come on, Katniss,” he puffs in desperation. “Come on, baby. Come for me. Fuck, I need you to come for me.”

 

“Almost, almost,” I beg as I grip his arm and try not think about the time crunch we’re in. He shifts his knees behind me and rolls his hips. I scream as the pressure low between my hips turns into a full fledged inferno and he plunges faster until I thrash hard enough to unseat his hands and nearly unseat him. I flop onto the bed, face buried in cotton as I moan while he grips my still lifted hips and thrusts mercilessly, his teeth sinking into my shoulder blade.

 

“Oh my god,  _ Peeta, _ ” I moan as he strikes deep and shoves me right back towards another orgasm before the first has even ebbed. I have no control over the spasming of my walls on him or the sounds leaving my throat or even the gush of release that coats him. I am caught in this vortex of pleasure and only vaguely hear him yell my name as he slams into me one last time and rotates his hips while he rides out his own release.

 

We’re trembling from head to toe as he lays on top of me and I wish we’d managed to get our shirts off too so I could feel the undiluted warmth of his skin on mine. He brushes aside my damp hair and grips a handful to hold it out of the way with a shaking hand while he peppers kisses over my back, which only add to my tremors. I manage to turn my head enough to gasp for fresh air as our hips sink into the bed. We’re still like that when the buzzer announces the arrival of our food.

 

“Peeta. I love you,” I manage to say and he lets out a soft puff of laughter.

 

“You just want me to get dressed and go get the food so you don’t have to deal with Gavin knowing we just had sex,” he teases and nuzzles my ear. 

 

“No! It’ll just take you less effort to clean up,” I huff indignantly, but let him go because now that I’m a boneless pile of satisfaction, my growling stomach reminds me of just how hungry I am right now. And he’s partially right about Gavin, too.

 

“I’m going,” Peeta says as he slides his cock from me, slow enough to send another round of shudders through my body since he’s not gone soft just yet. He tugs his briefs back up and finds a pair of his athletic shorts in my closet before heading downstairs bare footed.

 

While he’s gone, no doubt chatting with our regular delivery guy from Sae’s, I manage to clean myself up a little, although my sheets are a mess and will need changing before tonight, and get the bread sliced. 

 

Peeta returns and drops the bag on the counter. Then his hands rest on my hips and he plants a soft kiss on my neck. Frissons of delight dance down my spine and I reach behind me to grip his hair and hold him there, the brief thought that I almost missed out on this flutters through my mind. Not because his job requires him to sometimes risk his life, but because I was afraid to take a risk. I think of all the nights I’ve spent with his arms around me, all of the good days we’ve spent together and all the ones to come. All the kisses that set my life alight with an unquenchable hunger. Lucky thing he’s pretty good at dealing with fires.

 

“I love you,” I murmur again so he knows they're not a tease but real, and Peeta’s arms wrap around me fully, holding me in the warmth of his embrace as he returns the words. Worth the risks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've all enjoyed the journey! Thanks for all your comments and interest! <3


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